


Decisus

by Picturemedrowning



Category: Professional Wrestling, WWE
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Smut, Wrestling, underground fighting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-22
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2017-12-30 04:48:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 66,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1014281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Picturemedrowning/pseuds/Picturemedrowning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>CM Punk is an underground fighter in Miami, struggling to live on a pathetic wage - Until one night, he meets a stranger who offers him a way out into a world darker and more brutal than anything he's seen before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In the Beginning

The place was nothing but a dingy sweatbox crammed with guys eager to forget themselves. Thirsty for blood. Starving for it.

Punk cracks his knuckles and paces the ring, jaw set, focused on the man opposite, tracking him. He squints and sweats in the spotlights. Jeering comes from all around them, Spanish and English, filling his head, raising his pulse. An empty beer can rolls out across the mat and he kicks it away.

The other guy is big. Over 6 4” for sure and wide. But big like that means slow and stupid. Means easy. Punk’s not worried.

The bell clangs and Punk lets the big guy unload on him for a few seconds, a barrage of inexperienced punches crashing down on his raised forearms. Frenzied. Punk waits for the guy to tire just a little and kicks out at his left knee, bringing him to the ground with a meaty thump.

The crowd yells its dissatisfaction. They don’t want it over like this. Not so soon.

Punk lets the guy up, wobbling on his right leg now. Lets him swing a massive fist and Punk ducks lithely under it, stepping back. 

‘Come on you stupid fucker,’ he taunts, fists barely raised. ‘At least try?’

The guy snarls like a wounded beast and lunges at Punk, pushing him back into the post and knocking the air from his lungs. He coughs against the guy’s shoulder, sucking in a stinging breath and bracing himself on the ropes. He shoves his knee into the guy’s stomach, feels it swallowed momentarily by fat and the guy falls away from him, landing heavily on his back.

Punk massages his sternum and watches the guy struggle up, breathing like he’s just run a mile, sweat pouring over his face and down his neck.

He lunges again and Punk side steps him, catching a little of the force on his right shoulder and spinning to face the guy’s rebound from the ropes. Punk kicks up high and catches him square under the chin and it’s lights out before he hits the ground.

The guy won’t be getting up any time soon. He counts that as a good night’s work and bows out, ribs still aching. He hops down from the ropes and feels hands slapping at his back, roughing up his hair.

In the corridor away from the noise and heat of the ring, his mind quiets. He stretches his arms over his head and rolls his neck as he walks, feeling the adrenaline of the fight ebbing away and leaving a sore empty ache in its place.

He goes to the office to collect his pay, wanting a shower and the smell of the big guy’s sweat off him. The gym owner, a guy with too many dumb addictions and too few brain cells for Punk to ever call him friend, sits with his feet propped up on his desk, a cigarette dangling from his lip. CCTV monitors flicker dimly in front of him, the light reflecting and glinting off the chains at his throat. He tears his eyes away and looks up.

‘Hey, Punk, that was a great fight. Over a little too soon, but I ain’t complainin’. You always get the job done, right?’ Boston accent. A little drunk.

‘Danny I came for my money, not a pep talk.’ Punk holds out his hand, hating the smoke that hangs in the room like a stale fog and fights to keep eye contact.

Danny looks at him for a moment and then smiles, taking the burning cigarette from his mouth and placing it carefully in an ashtray to his left. He pulls his feet from the desk top and pushes his chair back. ‘Of course. Of course you want your money. Always the business man,’ he rifles in the desk drawer and Punk can’t help but think he’s making a god damn show of it.

‘See, thing is, Punk, sit for Christ’s sake-’

‘No thanks.’

‘You’re making me nervous, standing there like that.’

‘Just came for my pay, nothin’ else. Just wanna go home.’ Punk stares him down, hazel eyes hard, hand still outstretched. He motions _hurry up_ with his fingers.

‘Look. I gotta tell you. You’re too good for these guys, okay? You don’t even give ‘em a chance-’

‘Danny.’ Punk warns, something in the pit of his stomach telling him this is about to go bad somehow. Danny closes the desk drawer, notes clenched in his fist.

‘This is all I can do, okay?’

He hands over the money and Punk can see his hands shaking, marks where his yellowed fingernails have bitten into his palm. Punk looks at the money for a few seconds, and then up at Danny. Now his stomach is sinking down through his gut.

‘This is thirty dollars.’

‘Yeah. It is.’

‘Not even half. Where’s the rest of it?’

‘Like I said, that’s all I can do.’ He takes a stressed drag on his cigarette, maybe just to have something to do with his hands.

‘Are you fucking with me?’ Punk says quietly, gaze not wavering from Danny’s increasingly pale face.

‘I don’t want no trouble, alright? Things are a little tight right now, that’s all.’

Punk let out a disbelieving laugh. ‘This isn’t shit, Danny. How the fuck am I supposed to pay my fuckin’ rent? How the fuck am I menna’ eat?’

‘I’m sorry man,’ and he looked it. ‘You’re just not bringin’ in enough money anymore. No one wants to see you tear a guy apart in two fuckin’ seconds. Its not sportin’. Like I said, you’re too good for these guys now.’ Another puff of smoke drifts up to join the rest.

Anger sparks up through Punk’s body like lightning. White hot and sudden. He flings the money back at Danny and it drifts lazily through the air.

‘Keep it, you useless piece of shit.’ Punk points a finger at Danny, dead still in the silence and smoke. ‘You’re lucky I don’t knock your teeth down your throat for this.’

He can hear Danny calling out to him as the office door crashes shut behind him. Can hear his voice following him down the hall to the changing rooms like a bad smell. Fifty eight steps of peeling green paint and worn lino to the showers. If he can get that far he might make it the rest of the way home without committing murder. He slams the changing room door open and comes to a dead stop.

A guy sits on the bench directly ahead of him, arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the lockers. Wide shoulders. Military-like. For a second Punk thinks this guy might be here to kill him; he looks so much like a hitman. Ice grey eyes and a shaved head, black jeans, boots and trench coat. Expensive watch.

‘What is it my birthday or somethin’? Who the fuck are you?’ Punk says, palm still flat on the door, coming down from the anger that had flared in him so fast he feels dizzy.

The guy smiles a little, actually more of a smirk. Huge jaw on him and unkempt stubble. Difficult to read. ‘You CM Punk?’ arms still crossed, nonchalant. His voice is low and deep like the rumble of a Dodge.

‘Who’s askin?’

The guy’s smile widens. ‘You know, when people say that it usually means I got the right guy. That was a nice fight out there.’

‘Thanks. I still don’t know who you are,’ Punk’s hand is steady on the door, his palm a little clammy.

‘My name’s Orton. Randy.’ He nods a greeting. Punk nods back.

‘So what exactly are you doing in here? You know this is my changing room?’

‘I was hoping so. I have a proposition for you. Shut the door.’

Punk’s hand slips off the door and he steps through, leaning on the back of it and hearing it click shut. The guy, Orton, looks big but Punk is sure he can take him. ‘How’d you find me?’

‘I asked around.’

‘Oh yeah? What d’you ask?’

‘I asked who was the best.’

Punk feels the corner of his mouth go up in the beginnings of a smile and fights it off. Orton uncrosses his arms and leans forward, looking at Punk like he’s for sale. ‘You got any vices?’

Punk keeps his eyes on Orton, trying to get a read on him that makes any sense. Too sharp and too tactful to be anything gang-related. Didn’t waste words, only said what needed to be said. Dressed wrong, definitely not from Miami. Too rough around the edges, too dangerous–looking to be a serious professional.

‘Nothin’. I’m straight edge.’ Punk hears himself say this and can’t quite work out why he isn’t half way to the parking lot by now. Randy nods like he doesn’t believe him and doesn’t care.

‘You have a passport?’

He’s ticking things off a list.

‘Sure. But I don’t think we look alike enough for you to get away with it, you’re much better looking.’

Randy breathes out a laugh and Punk notices his eyes are blue, not grey. ‘Don’t worry about that. I have my own.’ He pats his coat pocket.

‘Are you gonna tell me what this is about, or are we gonna play twenty fucking questions all night?’

Randy holds his hands up like Punk’s got a gun on him. ‘Alright, alright. Listen. This place is a hell-hole. I think you know that.’ The light bulb in the ceiling flickers like its making a point. Randy’s hands come down and rest on his jeans. Big, strong. Scarred knuckles. ‘You’re wasted, man. Too good for these assholes. I’ve been to your last three matches, and you’re about as good as it gets around here. But I don’t need to tell you that, right?’

‘I’m getting déjà vu.’ Punk crosses his arms, shifting against the door. He is about ready to kick this pseudo hired-gun out on his ass and go home.

‘I have an opportunity for you. To fight against real guys, to earn real money, real fast.’

‘Sounds too good to be true.’

‘Its in London.’

Silence weighs the room down like its a sinking ship.

‘As in, London, England?’

‘The very same.’

‘Why the fuck would I want to go there?’

‘You sick of your life? Because you fuckin’ look like it. You want out? You won’t get another chance like this. Ever.’ Randy’s eyes are direct and nearly painfully intense and Punk wants to look away, wants to break this up and forget all about this entire fucking day, but there is something niggling inside him. He could go. There is nothing for him here anymore.

‘Legit?’

‘Sure. Not legal, but I’m guessing that doesn’t bother you any. And there’s more money in it over there than here, I promise you that.’ 

Punk is quiet, his mind running at a million miles an hour. Randy stands up and Punk sees that he is a good few inches taller. Stands like he spends all his time slouching down to accommodate shorter people. He reaches into his coat pocket.

‘Here. Your plane ticket.’

Punk takes it, not even sure its real.

‘I don’t care if we just go fucking sight-seeing and then you come straight back to this dump. But get on that plane. You got nothing to lose.’ Randy looks him in the eyes like he’s cornering and simultaneously trying to comfort him. Its an unnerving effect. Punk swallows and holds the ticket in his hands, trying to scrape his thoughts back into his head under that gaze.

‘Take this. And call me when you leave.’ Randy hands him a card with his cell number scrawled across it, UK digits. Punk unconsciously takes it and steps aside, hearing him go, still staring down at the ticket.

 

*

 

Three days later he sits on the edge of his bed, with nothing but the flickering TV and faltering air con unit for company. He’s had the phone cradled in his hand for near on twenty minutes now, staring down at it like he’s waiting for it to ring.

He knows it won’t.

She isn’t going to call.

Why would she?

How could she know?

He clenches his fist around it for five more seconds, the plastic creaking under his grip – five, four, three - _last chance_ – two, _c’mon, please_ \-- one -- and lets it drop to the carpet. The plane ticket sits on the bedside table, promising so much its almost impossible to believe. He fishes his wallet out of his pocket and counts the money he has left, cursing his temper and suddenly missing that thirty dollars. He doesn’t have enough to pay for his room another night.

Pretending that’s what did it, and not that he’d known from the second Randy offered, Punk starts to pack his things. Stuffs a toothbrush, a few spare clothes and his gym gear into a black duffel bag and realises that’s all he owns. Feeling like something out of a cheap novel, he swings the bag over his shoulder and snatches the plane ticket up into his hand. Folds it in his wallet. He leaves the room, closes the door quietly behind him and doesn’t look back.

*

A cab to MIA takes the last of his real money.

And a phone call to Randy takes the rest.

‘Hello?’ His voice is so low its like the phone shakes with it. Punk thinks maybe he’s woken him up.

‘I’m at the airport.’

A few seconds of silence.

‘I’m very glad to hear that.’

‘Really, you sound like you don’t give a shit,’ He looks around, in the warm dusk, at the lights and the people and knows he won’t miss it.

Randy laughs softly. ‘I had faith in you. What time d’you land?’

‘6am.’

‘Okay. I can pick you up from the airport, I’ll be outside.’ Punk hears him yawn and the rustle of sheets. Sees him stretching in the dark or rubbing his eyes and feels bad for keeping him awake.

‘Just sight-seeing, right?’ _I'm putting all my faith in you and I don't know why -_

‘Right,’ He hears the smile in Randy’s voice.

‘I gotta go. Check in time.’

‘Sure. Anyone you wanna call, let them know where you’re going? Better do it now.’

Punk reads between the lines and sees _because you might not get another chance_.

‘I got no one to call.’

The saddest words he’s ever fucking said come out of his mouth and its like the world opens up on him and he falls. He feels sick. Randy starts to say something back but the phone runs out of quarters and the line goes dead.

Punk hangs up and rubs his face, trying to clear his head. Something about this feels so final, and he hasn’t had time to say goodbye. Not to Miami. Not the heat. But to this life. Maybe to himself. 


	2. Initiation

Punk finds out that the inside of London’s Heathrow is a lot like MIA and the feeling of leaving doesn’t quite hit until he gets outside. The October air feels cold and fresh and it smells clean but it strikes him like a wave of icy grey water and he’s never felt further from home. He pushes past tourists and weary commuters with nothing but his black bag and hopes Randy hasn’t left him in this fucking place with no money, no phone, and no return ticket.

Two minutes later, he’s standing outside arrivals having a small panic attack and wishing he’d been able to sleep on the plane so his brain would work and he could figure out what to do. His eyes scan the crowds-

Randy is leaning against the passenger door of a black sports car, black coat, black jeans, smoking. He sees Punk and waves at him, once. Punk swallows, and not for the first time, wonders what the god damn fuck he’s doing.

‘Thought you’d left me hangin’ there for a sec,’ he says as he gets close, hitching his bag up higher on his shoulder.

‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ Randy says, flicking his cigarette down and stepping on it. ‘How was your flight?’

‘You know. Pretty horrible.’

‘Huh. You know where you’re staying yet?’

‘Not yet.’ Punk says, feeling dread grab at his stomach.

‘Okay, no problem. I’ll show you some places. Wanna get some food first? I’ll take you to meet the guys another time.’ Randy doesn’t wait for a reply. He skirts around the hood of his car, an Audi R8 Punk sees now, and gets in, lithe and easy. Punk sinks into the passenger seat, shoves his bag between his feet and god it’s a _thousand_ times more comfortable than the plane. It smells like leather and money and soap. The engine starts with a roar that makes Punk’s toes curl.

‘Nice ride,’ he says casually.

‘Thanks, came with the job. Didn’t have shit when I got here, same as you,’ He looks at Punk with a smirk on his face. ‘But things got better.’

He peels out of the parking space and Punk is pushed back into his seat as they head for Central London.

 

*

 

The drive from the airport is thirty minutes of sleep Punk didn’t know he was getting. He wakes with a jerk, his chin slipping off his hand suddenly.

‘Fuck.’ He blinks, swallows, rubs his face.

‘You go ahead, look like you need your beauty sleep,’ Randy says. He’s lost the coat for a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow and Punk is more than a little surprised to see the skin on both arms dark with tattoos. He finds himself wondering how far up they go.

‘Sorry, didn’t sleep on the plane. Don’t sleep much at all actually,’ He doesn’t know why he’s saying this but it feels like the right thing to do.

‘Not a problem. Fuckin’ traffic man. Beautiful car like this is wasted in this fuckin’ rat run,’ Randy is talking more to himself than to Punk, drumming his fingers on the dash and waiting for the lights to change. ‘I’m gonna die if I don’t get some coffee in the next five seconds.’

 

*

 

They stop at a café and get a booth. Punk drops his bag under the table and slides in, waiting for Randy to order. The city outside is awake and alive, but in a different way to Miami. Polar opposite to Miami.

Randy comes back with two mugs of coffee and some bottled water and sits.

‘Want anything to eat?’

Punk shakes his head no.

‘So what’d you think of the city?’

‘Its grey as fuck.’

Randy laughs, deep but tired-sounding. ‘Yeah, I guess it is.’

Punk smiles and takes a sip of coffee. Hot and strong and good. God he needs to wake up.

‘Drug free, huh?’ Randy motions to the mug clutched in Punks hands, his tattooed fingers curled protectively around it.

‘Insomniac, doesn’t count.’

‘Sure. Lemme tell you something,’ Like he’s heard that before, ‘these guys, they love their drink. Its like nothing you’ve seen.’ Randy’s smiling and Punk thinks maybe he’s the first American Randy's properly spoken to in a while. Maybe Punk reminds him of home. ‘Its like a way of life. I’ve seen thirteen year old girls, okay, paralytic in the street. These people are wasted before they go out to get wasted. Its astounding.’

‘Fuckin’ Europe, man.’ Punk says, sipping his coffee again.

‘Don’t let them catch you callin’ ‘em that,’

‘What,’

‘Europe.’

Punk laughs and shrugs his shoulders. Randy looks out the window and toys with the water bottle in his hands. Screwing and unscrewing the lid absentmindedly. Punk can see now, in the harsh flat morning light of London that Randy is in good shape. Built like a brick shithouse, he might even say. Square frame and bi’s like anacondas. Neck and shoulders like he could haul Punk around all day no problem. Scarred knuckles, strong hands.

‘You ever fight? You look like you fight.’

Randy looks back at him like Punk has woken him from a dream.

‘Used to. Hurt my shoulder last year, real bad. Damaged goods, you know.’ He touches his right shoulder without thinking, working his fingers into the joint. ‘I can still fight but I'm no good for betting matches anymore. 'S a shame, I miss it like hell.'

Punk forces a smile, memories he'd rather forget resurfacing like corpses in a lake. 'But you're still here.'

'Yeah, yeah. I Thought it was gonna be the axe for me but Vince gave me another chance.’

‘Vince?’

‘Shit, yeah Vince is the boss man, he’s a good guy, I owe him a lot. You keep your mouth shut around him and you’ll get on just fine.’

‘He have a problem with outspoken guys?’

‘You gotta respect him, that’s all. You got issues with authority, that isn’t gonna fly around here. He’ll dump your sorry ass into the gutter and leave you there to die. Forget your face the second he looks away. Just shut up and stick with me and you’ll do great.’

‘So what are you? His head hunter?’

‘I guess. Vince needs something, I try my damn best ‘make sure it gets done. He’s is in some deep, deep shit with a German guy right now. Owes him a load’a money. He needs a sure thing, a definite winner. Something to bet on, you know. He told me, pick someone you’d be scared to get in the ring with. And so here you are.’

‘You picked right.’

‘I hope so.’

*

Back in the soft black cocoon of Randy’s car, Punk feels like time is running out.

‘Look, I have to say something. I spent the last of my money on a cab in Miami.’ Randy looks at him, forearm resting on the steering wheel. ‘So, what I’m trying spit out here is that I can’t afford to rent anywhere.’

Randy shrugs a shoulder, ‘You can stay at my place. Its big enough,’ and starts back out into the traffic like its nothing.

‘Are you sure? I don’t wanna put you out -’

‘Get off your high fuckin’ horse and relax. Its no trouble. I’d be the first to say if it was. I probably owe you, getting you into this shit.’ Punk doesn’t ask what he means by that, half because he doesn’t want to know, and half because he’s sure he’ll find out soon enough.

They get to Randy’s by 9am and Punk is so tired he can barely stand. Randy lives in an apartment block in Knightsbridge and its by far the most extravagant place Punk has ever seen. He silently wonders at the marble floored lobby and in the elevator, he doesn’t say anything when Randy pushes the button for penthouse. But he can’t keep his mouth shut when they step through the front door.

‘Holy shit. This is all yours?’

Randy throws his keys down and hangs his coat up. Punk hears him laugh. ‘Sure is. Came with the job too. But I bought it off Vince with my earnings a few months ago. More of an investment than anything.’

Punk imagines Randy selling this place in a few years and being able to afford a small island and still have change to spare. The kitchen and lounge is an open expanse of rich wood and metallic fixings. The entire right wall is made from enormous windows and Hyde Park stretches out below them, the rest of London crowding around it in a messy grey sprawl.

Punk had walked to the window without realising, and now Randy is beside him, unbottoning his shirt sleeves and rolling them up again. Punk looks at the view for a few seconds, feeling strangely humbled.

‘Bedrooms and bathrooms and whatever are through there,’ Randy motions to the hallway behind them. ‘Mine’s first on the right, you can have whichever one you want.’

‘This is too much. I’ll repay you, I swear.’ Punk says, his bag hanging limply at his side. Randy smiles a little.

‘Don’t worry about it. You’ve repaid more than I can give you by even coming this far. I don’t think you realise how much you’re helping me here,’

Punk shrugs, ‘Haven’t done anything yet.’

Randy pats him hard on the shoulder, ‘Whatever man. Go shower, sleep. You look like shit.’

 

*

 

Punk woke with his face pressed into white Egyptian cotton.

He shifts on the bed, belly down and still fully clothed, getting his bearings. The smell of coffee and food drifts over him, forcing his eyes open. He sits up and rubs his face, head feeling like lead on his shoulders. The room is dark and full length blinds drawn across the windows hide the day from his sensitive eyes. He doesn’t remember closing them. He gets up and peels his clothes off, lays them on the bed. 

The en suite bathroom is bigger than any bedroom he’s ever had.

Everything is pristine and white, sparkling and unused. The shower is in the middle of the room, a huge glass monument, raised up on the tiles. He stands under the jets for twenty minutes, letting the water pound at his neck and back until he feels halfway human again.

He steps back into the bedroom with a towel around his waist and opens the blinds. As he looks out at the city he is struck by how easy it’s all been. How it could have gone so much worse. All the scenarios that played around his head on the plane seem ridiculous now, just the product of pessimistic imagination. Punk doesn’t know Randy at all, but he feels safe now; safer than he ever did in his dingy Miami motel. He feels like he can get a hold of his situation, survey it from all the way up here. Hide away and not come out until everything is fixed. But as ever, he is waiting for the catch. Waiting for life to kick his ass like it always does.

He dresses and makes his way to the kitchen,  soft carpet replaced by hard shiny wood under his feet.

Randy is pacing around the room in nothing but grey sweatpants, hung low on his hips. He’s talking on the phone, holding it to his ear with one hand and cradling a box of Chinese food in the other. Punk watches him for a few seconds, getting his answer and then some about how far Randy’s tattoos go. They flow, serpent-like, up his arms and across the tops of his shoulders. He looks like he could do some serious damage with all that lean muscle. Not an ounce of fat on him.

Punk stops staring and slides onto a stool at the breakfast bar, trying to not listen to Randy’s conversation. He picks at his knuckle. D-R-U-G. Drums his fingers on the granite. 

‘Yeah, yeah, I got it. No problem. Alright, I’ll see you tonight, uh huh...Bye.’ He hangs up and grabs chopsticks, motioning to Punk. ‘There’s some for you, I didn’t know what to get so just help yourself to anything.’

Punk roots around in the boxes and finds something he can recognise.

‘Girlfriend?’

‘Huh?’ Randy swallows his food down, wipes the corner of his mouth with his thumb.

‘On the phone,’ Punk says around a mouthful of rice.

‘Oh,’ Randy puts the box down on the side. ‘No.’ He picks his discarded t-shirt up from the bar and pulls it on over his head. Punk watches all that skin disappear in a flourish of black cotton and tries not to say _this is your place, you don’t have to do that_. ‘That was Vince, he wants to see you tonight. I’ll take you to meet the others tomorrow.’

Punk feels the slightest twinge of apprehension. ‘Okay, no problem. He got an office?’

Randy leans against the counter top, crossing his arms. ‘He wants to watch you fight, I mean. You won’t meet him for a while yet.’

Punk swallows, nodding. ‘Gotta earn my keep somehow, right?’

‘Ah man, don’t say it like that,’ Randy laughs. Punk smiles, scooping more rice onto his chopsticks. Randy has this real calm disposition that puts him at ease. Maybe because he’s been through all this himself and come out the other side just fine. More than fine.

‘All you have to do is stay in the ring for ten minutes. Kinda like an initiation, okay?’

‘Sounds easy enough.’

‘Don’t get cocky. This isn’t Miami. These aren’t some bunch of sun-bleached wannabes, these are serious guys. Total psychos, most of ‘em. Don’t give a shit if you walk out yourself or come out in a body bag, as long as they get their cut.’

Punk watches him, chewing, mulling it over in his head.

‘Just ten minutes? I don’t even have to knock him out?’

‘Pure survival. I believe in you, you’ll be fine.’

‘I know.’

 

*

 

The place was like nothing Punk had ever seen. Randy drove them through the thriving nightlife to North London, just up from Camden. It was called the Dublin Castle and it was the most miserable establishment Punk had ever set foot in. He understood now what Randy was saying about the British and their love of alcohol. Through the stale beer-sodden bar with every eye in the place on their backs, and down some steps to the basement.

A group of around thirty, forty guys stand milling around, cigarette smoke hanging high in the air, misting around a single light bulb in the ceiling. The room is small and cold, the corners dark. It smells of damp and sweat. A dog barks from the somewhere in the crowd and Punk’s heart spikes in his chest. Randy puts a hand on the middle of his back and urges him forward. Leaves it there as they walk.

The group of men sees them and parts, staring at them like they’d just entered the lion’s den. The ring is barely a ring at all; just ropes held up around steel posts, hammered into the ground. No raised mat, no padding, no nothing.

‘Is there anywhere to change?’ Punk says, looking sideways at Randy.

‘Just fight in your clothes. Won’t make any difference.’

‘You sound nervous,’ Punk says with a semi-forced smirk. Randy looks across at him and opens his mouth to reply but –

‘-Orton, nice of you to show up.’ A London drawl interrupts him, and a man threads his way through to them. He is shorter than them both, 5 11” at the most. Shaved head and stubble like Randy, leather jacket and jeans.

‘Tom,’

Randy shakes his hand.

‘This your guy?’ He motions to Punk and Randy nods.

‘Good luck mate,’ Tom offers Punk his hand and Punk shakes it, firm and unafraid.

‘I dunno if he’s told you the rules, but all you have t’do is stay in the ring for ten minutes. That means, conscious. And not dead. Obviously,’ He laughs and Punk feels the urge to puke. ‘Alright?’

‘Fine,’ Punk says, squaring his shoulders.

‘Cool. Alright well, see you on the other side,’ He nods at Randy and pushes past, back into the crowd.

‘Show time,’ Randy murmurs. He reaches into his pockets and pulls out two lengths of white bandage. Punk feels the need to make some kind of entrance rise up inside him. Make these guys take notice of him from the word go. Take control like he never could in Miami. He wraps his knuckles with the bandage, breathing deep, staring around. If this goes bad, there is nothing to do but fight his way out.

He whips his shirt off and pushes it at Randy, trying to feed off the crowd, trying to build his adrenaline. He stretches his arms over his head, flexing, warming up. All he can feel is a strange low dread that is telling him he should get out of this fucking hell hole the first chance he gets.

The dog barks again.

Punk walks up to the ring and steps over the ropes. He can’t see Randy anymore, he’s been swallowed by the others. Punk paces around, staring down the guys surrounding him. He’s taller and wider and stronger than all of them and he knows it. None of them stand a chance against him. The air is crisp on his skin, so different from everything he's used to. He is refreshed and alert and for a second the image of Randy, the miles of inked skin, the solid, indestructible build, the way he holds himself, flashes in his head. With a strange jolt Punk realises that all he wants is to prove himself. 

_You won't get another chance like this, ever._

_Pick someone you’d be scared to get in the ring with…_

_And so here you are._

A cheer smatters around the crowd and guys move back, shuffle around. Someone is parting them, on their way to the ring. Punk shakes the tension out of his back and arms, rolls his neck and starts to bounce lightly on the balls of his feet. Lucid, calm, focused.

Honestly, Punk was expecting it to be Randy.

But when a wiry, stick thin kid of no more than twenty five steps into the ring, Punk feels relief spread through him. He brings his elbows back, loosening the joints, rolling his shoulders, keeping his eyes fixed on his opponent.

The guy, so pale he almost looks grey, steps up to Punk and holds out his hand. Punk stops bouncing on his feet and looks down at the outstretched wrist and thinks about snapping it. Game over.

Instead he glances around and shakes the guys hand.

‘Good luck t’yeh.’ Irish accent. Maybe younger than twenty five. A scrap of blonde hair, dirty and unwashed. Cut off sweatpants and a chest like a baby bird.

‘Yeah. And you,’ Punk’s voice is like gravel compared to this kid. Bright green eyes with yellow centres stare up at him and Punk wants to laugh. There is no way in hell he can lose. Not a chance.

They step apart and Punk massages his knuckles.

The bell clangs in the air and the crowd starts shouting. The kid steps around him and Punk follows every move, hazel eyes locked on green. He barely comes up to Punk’s shoulder. Punk’s fought a lot of people, but he’s not about to start hitting a child unprovoked.

Said child swings at his face with such speed and ferocity that his fist cracks against Punk’s cheekbone before he even has time to blink.

Punk staggers back, brings a bandaged hand up to what he knows will be a bruise later. ‘Fuck. Well alright then.’ He murmurs.

He crouches down a little, hunkers into himself like he’s using his own body as a shield and cross steps around the ring, fists raised. The kid comes at him again and this time Punk is ready. He blocks the blow and lands a punch to the kid’s bony chest, knocking him back into the rope. Follows him and hooks him with his left hand on the cheek. The kid slips down, grabbing the post to keep himself up.

Punk eases off, lets him recover. Maybe a second too long.

He lunges and Punk feels a fist connect with his mouth, his head snaps back, pain twisting through his neck. He shakes his head and spits blood onto the concrete, guard back up. No more chances.

He sees a glint of steel clutched in the kids fist and his brain goes into fight or flight mode before he even registers what’s happening. It picks fight.

_A knife. He’s got a knife._

He rushes the kid, going for his shoulder, trying to dislocate it and make his whole arm useless. He lands a punch on the joint but skips back a little to avoid the whooshing sweep of the blade, inches from his face.

He kid’s expression is like stone, nothing there but pure focused energy.

They circle each other, the knife pointing downwards in the kid’s tensed hand like he’s going to slash towards the ground, diagonal, instead of stab outward. Punk makes a mental note to try and stay on his feet whatever happens.

The kid comes forward, lightning fast, bringing the knife sweeping down through the air at Punk’s chest. He ducks sideways and chops at the kid’s elbow from behind, snapping it the wrong way. The kid lets out a sharp groan and the blade switches hands. Facing Punk again, the kid never stops moving. Punk mirrors him, watching his movements. He crouches and jumps as the kid swings again, blocking the blade and smashing his knuckle into the kid’s collarbone. He knees him swiftly in the stomach, one-two, knocking the air out of him as he staggers backwards. The kid is panting now, Punk’s barely breaking a sweat.

Then the dog barks again and for a split second, Punk’s focus is broken. He looks into the crowd, just black shapes in yellow cigarette-stained light - and back to the kid to see him jabbing sideways through the air, and the knife slices him just below the ribs. A sharp biting pain spreads across his stomach, deep and electrifying.

He checks the wound, quickly - a line of blood rushes down to his hip and spreads into the fabric of his jeans – and back up in time to see the kid kick out at his knee.

Punk’s leg collapses under him and his other knee smacks into the concrete as he goes down. The handle of the knife cracks him in the face and he falls onto his side, suddenly blinking blood out of his eyes. Pain swathes over his face and through his skull and fills it with aching stinging blackness. He shuffles left to keep moving, shaking his head like an animal, fighting the urge to pass out.

With one hand clutched to his rib and his teeth clenched, he kicks viciously out at the kid, catching his ankle and making him falter. He takes the moment to struggle back to his feet and grips the iron post behind his back, feeling the world sway under him. He watches the kid advance on him again, eyes narrowed, a purple-pink bruise blooming on his white chest. Punk wipes blood out of his eye, feels the burn of split skin on his eyebrow.

This little fucker is a cheat.

The red mist starts to descend and Punk almost forgets all about the blood slicking his fingers and face and the dull ache in his knee. The kid starts towards him again, fast, like he’s taking a run-up. Punk coils himself and swings - kicks his left foot up, catching the kid in the stomach and a second later smashes a right hook up to his jaw hard and fast and savage. He arcs through the air and hits the ground like he’s made of lead, like a puppet with its strings cut. Punk flicks the blade out of the kids limp hand with his foot and it skitters away across the floor, spinning and coming to a slow stop.

Silence.

And then -

The crowd roars, a visceral wave of testosterone and bloodlust swarms over Punk and he raises his fists into the air, breathing hard, ears ringing. He stares around but then all he sees is Randy, pushing through the crowd with a disbelieving crooked smile on his face. Eyes the colour of drifting ice lock on Punk, and suddenly its like they’re the only two people in the room.

Punk goes to him, feeling like he’s wading through water. Everything is slow motion and all that fills his head is – _I did it I proved myself I showed him how good I can be I fucking did it_ –

The same words come out of Randy’s mouth in a rush and as he grips Punk’s neck in his hand and pulls him in close the world catches up to him, deafeningly loud and blindingly bright.

‘Fuck, you did it-’

Punk nods, gripping Randy’s forearm and swallowing hard. They break apart and he steps over the rope. ‘I did okay?’ he breathes, spitting crimson at his feet.

‘You did great, that was - perfect.’ Randy pushes guys aside and leads Punk towards the door. The sounds of gamblers collecting their winnings, swearing, yelling, arguing and dogs barking is painful, echoing in the small room and god, Punk just wants fresh air-

Randy takes him along a corridor, hooks Punk’s arm over his shoulder and damn near carries him out the back of the place. Weaving between dustbins in the dark they reach the car and Punk collapses against the side of it, two hands cupped protectively over the wound at his waist. Randy squats down in front of him and peels his shaking hands away.

‘I’ve never been stabbed before,’ Punk pants, blinking away the dizzying feeling that washes over him. Randy snorts and looks up.

‘It’s just a tiny cut, don’t be a pussy.’ He pulls Punk’s shirt from inside his coat pocket and pushes it to the wound, taking Punk’s hands in his own and pressing them down, holding it in place.

‘You’ll be fine. Don’t get fuckin’ blood in my car.’

He stands up, close to Punk, six four at least and still slouching, eyes searching. Punk can smell faint cigarettes and cologne. ‘You good?’ his gaze flicks up to the wound on Punk’s eyebrow.

Punk swallows, tries to nod. ‘Yeah – yeah I’m fine.’

‘Alright. Let’s get the fuck outta here.’

He climbs into the car, the leather cool on his back. He winces as he settles into the seat, his knee feeling stiff and hot. Randy gets in and slams the door. He starts the engine and leaves it to idle, looks at Punk crouched there in the seat covered in his own blood.

‘I mean it, okay? You did a great job. Not a lotta guys can say the same. I wasn’t expecting so much from you. No way.’

‘Thought you said you believe in me,’ Punk smiles, stretching his leg out as much as he can.

‘Like fuck – I thought you were dead meat for sure.’ The laugh is there in Randy’s voice and Punk leans his head back, shifting his shoulders.

‘Ha-fucking-ha.’ 


	3. Panic

Punk lays flat on his back on the dining table, squinting at the lights above him. He’s got ice wrapped in a flannel pressed over his left eye; so swollen now he can barely see out of it. He brings his other arm up over his head, stretching the stiffness out, and tries to ignore Randy’s hands on him, poking and prodding.

‘I nearly got it, stay still.’

Randy is calm and quiet and steady as a rock as he peels steri-strips and lays them across the knife wound. Its deeper than they first thought but Randy swears he’s done this so many times he could damn well do it with his eyes shut.

 _I came home with worse than this after going to nightclubs_ , he had said, looking at Punk like he was crying over a paper cut.

Another ice pack rests on Punk’s injured knee and little rivers of cold water slip down onto the wood as he lays there under the lights, wearing a borrowed pair of Randy’s sweatpants.  His head is pounding like a thousand pneumatic drills are going at it between his ears. Randy pushes his chair back, gathering the debris. ‘Good to go,’ he says, and Punk sits up with a grimace, twisting to look at the damage.

‘Looks better than it feels,’ he mutters, swinging his legs over and hopping awkwardly onto the floor. He chucks the ice pack across the room, into the sink and lowers himself carefully down on the sofa.

‘So what now?’

‘We order food and sit on our asses in front of the TV, that’s what. You earned it.’ Randy throws handfuls of blood-soaked tissues and Punk’s old shirt unceremoniously into the trash. Punk watches him fussing around the room and realises with a finality that almost makes him laugh – either his head wound has given him brain damage – or - Randy is the first and only person he can say, hand on heart, he’s ever really trusted.

*

The next morning dawns grey and wet. Rain streaks hurriedly down the windows of Randy’s car as Punk looks out at the city, just a cold blur around them.

Randy takes him to a gym across the river, a huge place dedicated mostly to boxing and MMA training. He nods to the guy at the desk who takes them through the back rooms to a separate space where a handful of guys are working out and sparring. They wind around suspended punching bags and boxing rings, light filtering in from high windows in flat grey shafts that make everyone look exhausted.

They come up behind a guy with dark hair, tall and wide-built like Punk but softer around the edges, and younger, Punk can tell already. His shoulders are rounded and beaded with sweat at he jabs and punches at the bag hanging in front of him.

Randy clears his throat and the guy jumps a mile in the air.

 ‘-Jesus-’

He spins, panting, and a smile breaks across his face. He lowers his fists, wipes sweat off his forehead onto a sweatband at his wrist. He’s real young. Younger than Punk by five or six years maybe. Fresh and bright-eyed, like a schoolboy that just got his growth spurt. Randy pulls him into a quick hug - ‘good to see you, man,’ - and pushes him mockingly away, wiping sweat off his chin with the back of his hand.

‘This is Cody, came over from Georgia a few months after me. Cody this is Punk, Vince’s new whippin’ boy. Guess you’re off the hook for a while.’ Cody’s blue eyes flick to Punk, over his face, to the cut above his bruised and blackened eye.

‘I heard about last night, you must be somethin’ special, that nasty fucker put me out in 2 minutes. You did a great job.’

Punk nods thank you. ‘Just luck.’

‘How’s it goin’ so far?’ Cody asks. ‘You look pretty bust up,’ Punk glances at Randy, shrugs. It pulls the cut at his waist.

‘Not all bad I guess.’

‘He’s in good hands, that’s why.’ Randy smiles. ‘Look, I gotta go. Business stuff. I’ll pick you back up in a couple hours, okay? You boys play nice.’

Punk nods, ‘Sure.’

‘Yeah, you can hang out here, these other guys are makin’ me crazy. No fun at _all_. We can spar or whatever if you want,’ Cody offers. He sniffs and rests a hand on his hip. ‘I got gloves and pads.’

‘Watch him,’ Randy points a finger at Cody, smirking. ‘He’s almost as good as me.’

*

Punk lets Cody sweat himself sick for forty minutes with a pair of sparring pads and they don’t stop until the stiffness leaves his shoulders and the urge to hit back becomes too strong. Cody is fast and strong and disarmingly precise. He’s one of the best Punk’s ever trained with; dedicated and clever. Not impulsive like a lot of guys. Like Punk, for example.

They sit together on the edge of the ring, legs dangling, Cody getting his breath back and Punk all too aware of his aching body.

‘So you’ve just had the one match, right?’

‘Right.’

‘Soon you’ll be getting’ paid, it’ll almost be worth all the shit that comes along with it.’ Cody sweeps sweat off his forehead, shakes drips out of his hair.

‘Shit like last night? Like that kid pulling a knife on me?’

He smiles at Punk, a little bitterly. ‘Yeah. That and worse. You gotta leave your morals at the door if you wanna go far here.’

‘I don’t know if I’m okay with that.’

Cody shrugs one shoulder. ‘Kill or be killed, I guess.’

Punk leaves the sentence hanging in the air and it weighs him down, sinks into his chest like an anchor. Maybe he should be back in Danny’s office on his knees, begging for his thirty dollars.

Maybe not.

‘How you getting along with Randy?’

Punk looks over at him and back across the room, watching the others. All tall and well built. Perfect fighters. ‘Good. Great, actually. He’s done a lot for me, I got no idea where to start repaying him.’

‘Yeah, he does that. Takes you under his wing and all. He’s good at looking after people he cares about.’ A few seconds of silence tick by and Punk can feel Cody gearing up to say something.

‘But he’s not the guy you think he is.’

Punk looks at him, trying to read his face. Just sees a kind of reserved sadness there and fights the urge to shout _what does that even mean -_ ‘I don’t _think_ he’s anything, I barely know him.’

Cody’s turn to look away. ‘I’ve known him a long time, we go way back. He’s a lot better than he used to be. But just don’t…get in too deep with him, alright? I mean he’s great-’ he starts backtracking like crazy, like he’s said too much. ‘Couldn’t wish for a better friend. But he’s got skeletons in his closet, that’s all I’ll say.’

‘Haven’t we all?’

Cody looks down and he picks at his sweatband. ‘We sure do.’

‘Wanna go again?’

‘Yeah.’

Punk slides back under the ropes and gets up.

*

Randy is silent in the car, all the way back to his apartment. Agitated and sullen. Punk feels an awkward inkling that maybe something isn’t right and suddenly he has no idea how to go about saying this out loud.

He clamps his mouth shut and slouches down in his seat, watching the black-orange night sky out of the window. Randy’s tension is feeding into him, blackening his mood. He aches. Inside and out.

_He’s not the guy you think he is._

_Don’t…get in too deep with him, alright?_

*

‘You guys get along?’ Randy is chopping carrots on the counter, grey cotton sleeves rolled up to the elbow, knife gripped confidently in his hand.

‘Yeah. We trained a little.’ Punk looks across at Randy. ‘He’s a great fighter, from what I saw. Nearly dislocated my damn shoulder.’

Randy smiles half-heartedly and doesn’t look up. ‘That all you did?’

‘We talked, too.’

‘What d’you talk about?’

‘You.’

_He’s got skeletons in his closet, that’s all I’ll say -_

Randy glances up for a second and Punk sees a flash of something in his eyes, a focussed sharpness under all that cool and calm and he knows not to push it anymore. Not tonight.

‘Cody thinks a lot of you.’

‘He’s a good friend of mine. Real sweet guy.’

‘Uh huh.’

‘I’m sure you’ll get on great.’ There’s a shortness in his voice.

‘Is something wrong? You seem, I dunno.’ Punk shrugs. ‘Off.’

Randy keeps cutting, stays quiet for a while. Punk’s starting to think he didn’t even hear him when he lays down the knife and looks up.

‘I went to see Vince today, after I left you with Cody.’

‘Okay.’

‘He watched a tape of your match last night and he’s impressed.’

Punk feels the frown on his face. ‘That’s a good thing, right? Means you did your job.’

Randy pinches the bridge of his nose. Talks into his hand. ‘Vince is great but he’s a greedy son of a bitch sometimes.’ Looks back up at Punk. ‘He wants you to fight again. For money this time, might be a lot, I don’t know yet.’

‘Fine, I’ll do it. That’s what I’m here for.’ Something in Punk wants to make Randy feel like he isn’t responsible. Not for Punk or any of the stupid shit that could happen to him. Wants to take away the weight that has settled behind his eyes.

‘He wants to put you in a match _tomorrow_ night.’

Punk swallows - _but, what about, I can’t_ \- rise in his throat and bites them back. He scratches a hand through his hair and sighs. ‘Okay. Whatever he wants, I’ll do.’

Randy huffs out an incredulous laugh. ‘You must be as stupid as he is. You’re not ready and you know it.’

‘Do I have any choice?’

Randy shakes his head a little. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Well then. No point worrying about it.’ Punk tries to smooth it over, calm the voice in his head that is yelling – _you stupid fuck you got a concussion yesterday what the fuck are you doing you know this is the worst possible-_

‘I worry. Okay? Its my job to worry about you.’

They look at each other across the kitchen counter and the moment seems to stretch out for too long, becomes something different. Punk forgets how to swallow or breathe and suddenly doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Randy blinks with a minute shake of his head and picks up the knife. Starts cutting again.

*

Punk can almost hear the gears whirling in Randy’s head as he watches him by the open window, smoking into the city air. He tries to reassure him, hitches his voice into something nearly light-hearted and says ‘Hey, look at me, I’ll be fine, I’m the best, remember?’ And Randy shrugs him off, apparently determined to bear the weight of everything on his own.

Punk gives up, feeling dejected and a little stupid, after trying longer than he would with anyone else. He’s no stranger to a bad mood, understands the need to wallow. He lingers in the hallway, one hand on the door frame. ‘I’ll be in the other room if you need me.’ Randy looks over his shoulder as he leans on the window ledge. Flicks ash over the edge and nods.

Punk takes a long shower and after a while he hears thudding music from Randy’s bedroom and the clang of weights over the noise of the water.

Punk is itching to do something; his muscles feel lazy and heavy and useless and the urge rushes over him again, the need to prove himself. Danny would never have let him fight twice in three days, no way. He would have laughed in Punk’s face for suggesting it. Told him to shut up and go home, come back when he’d grown a few more brain cells. In his own cokehead way, he was the only thing that protected Punk from fighting himself into a hospital ward. Maybe Punk owed him a little gratitude for that. But now, a million miles away from his old life, none of that makes any difference. He has thrown himself headlong into something far worse, something that could put him in the ground forty years too early and the only thing he has to keep him out of it is Randy. Punk has never gone in for _us against the world_ , but it is starting to feel that way.

He shuts off the shower and steps wetly across the tiles to the mirror. The swelling on his eye has gone down but the left side of his face is purple-brown from eyebrow to cheekbone.

He swings his arms out across his chest and back behind him, stretching, spraying water. He feels tight. Wound up. He inhales deeply, stares at his reflection. Barely recognises what stares back.

*

Something is holding him down. Choking him. He can hear shouting far off in the distance, muffled and low. He tries to call out but the grip around his throat tightens and he knows he will die - a feeling of utter helplessness foods through him and turns his bones to lead. He scratches and grabs desperately at the hands at his neck, feeling skin and blood under his nails - fire ignites inside his lungs, burning through him tearing him apart –

_Hey, you okay?_

Punk sits up, gasping for breath and drenched in cold sweat, eyes wide. He shuffles backwards, panting and kicking the twisted covers off the bed ‘- _fuck_ , fuck, oh _fuck_ -’

‘You alright in there?’ Randy’s voice outside the door makes Punk jump, a sharp spike of panic stabs at his chest.

‘Y-yeah, I-’ he starts to cough and gasp, his throat tightening around the words. He touches his neck, feeling, _remembering_ -

Randy opens the door quietly, and stands framed in light from the hallway that makes Punk flinch. He can’t breathe he can’t speak his heart is slamming in his chest-

‘Hey, hey what the hell man, you having a panic attack or something?’ Randy crosses the room and kneels on the bed and the mattress sinks under him. Punk stares at him in the gloom, just a huge shape and heavy weight and he grabs in the semi-dark for him and tries to breathe.

‘It’s okay, you’re alright, inhale, exhale, come on, you’re fine,’ Randy’s voice is smooth and steady and quiet and Punk closes his eyes and clings to it like he’ll drown if he doesn’t. His hand is clamped on Randy’s arm like a vice. ‘Just listen to me, focus on me, its okay. Just breathe. You’re safe. You’re fine. It wasn’t real.’

Punk inhales deeply and lays back on the bed, forcing his hand to let go and his head to believe the words. He covers his face with his forearm, gritting his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut.

_Breathe in, breathe out._

_You’re not dying._

_Breathe in, breathe out._

_It wasn’t real._

_Breathe in, breathe out._

His heart begins to slow its frantic attack on his ribs. ‘Sorry,’ He croaks.

‘Don’t be stupid. You okay now?’

Punk nods, still covering his face. Swallows hard. And then – ‘I don’t know.’

‘You get that a lot?’

‘No.’ His other arm comes up and he rakes a shaking clammy hand over his face.

‘What was it? Bad dream?’

Punk coughs again. ‘Someone was choking me, I felt it. Woke up and I couldn’t breathe.’ Randy is silent but Punk can feel him looking. He lets his arms fall back down, one on his chest, and stares up at the ceiling.

_Breathe in,_

_Breathe out_

‘I thought some kind of horrible shit was happening, way you were shouting. Never got out of bed so fast in my life,’

‘Fuck, I’m sorry. Embarassing.’

‘My brother used to have anxiety attacks a lot when we were younger. You’re safe with me, I got a lot of experience.’ he laughs a little sadly and Punk lets him, watches his face fall in the dusk and feels his pulse settle. Randy shifts on the bed after a while, lays on his side, head propped on his hand. ‘God its been a long time since I saw him.’

The silence stretches out, calm and heavy. Punk looks out the huge windows at the city, outlining Randy in light like he’s just some kind of sloping black landscape. Punk imagines running his hand along the curve of Randy’s back.

‘You feeling any better? Want some water?’

‘I’m alright, I think.’

‘Want me to go?’

‘Tell me about your brother. You miss him?’ The words come out steady and sure and Punk doesn’t know what made him say them. Randy is quiet a while.

‘I got two brothers, both younger. And I miss them like crazy. Seems like a lifetime ago since I was home. You have any brothers? Sisters?’

‘No.’

‘At the airport, when you said you had no one to call. I just wondered, y’know.’

Punk breathes heavy through his nose. ‘I had a girl. But she hated me fighting. Got sick of patching me up I guess. I started spending more time at the gym than with her, it went bad.’

‘Oh I’ve been there, trust me.’

‘Pathetic isn’t it,’

‘God yes. Look, I wanna apologise for earlier. Vince just…brings out the worst in me sometimes. He’s fucking infuriating.’

‘I can look after myself, you don’t need to worry about me.’

‘Yeah, yeah I know. Guess I can’t help myself.’ Randy moves on the bed, lays on his back and stares up. ‘It just means a lot to me that you’re okay.’

‘I’m always okay.’

Randy breathes out a laugh. ‘I wish that was true.’

Punk shoves at the pillow under his head and shuffles down, a feeling of contentedness flooding over him in lazy waves, leaving a sweet tiredness in its wake. He feels a smile stretch across his face.

‘It’s been a long time since I shared a bed with a guy,’

Randy snorts laughter. ‘I bet.’ He sits up with a quiet groan and looks at Punk for a few seconds, ‘Better let you get some sleep.’ He murmurs.

‘Yeah. Big day tomorrow, right?’

‘Right.’

Randy gets up and leaves, slow and quiet. It’s twenty more seconds before Punk sees the dark pool of shadow at the door move away down the hall.


	4. Game Changer

Punk wakes early. He pulls the blinds open and stares out at the city, sky dark pink and orange above. Revels in the silence. He showers and gets dressed and wanders into the kitchen.

A cup of coffee steams slowly on the table, rich and dark. Punk fills a glass with water and settles in front of the windows to watch the sun rise. He can hear the shower in Randy’s bathroom.

Punk has never had a panic attack before. Never been specifically terrified of someone’s hands around his throat the way he is now. The thought makes his palms clammy. After Randy had left his room the night before he had tried his best to stay awake for fear of slipping back into his nightmare.

He had thought of Randy, as a distraction. Stretched out on his bed like a cat, all legs, all bare skin and the type of tattoos Punk would usually hate but for some reason, doesn’t. Punk couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment he’d started thinking of Randy this way. Maybe ever since the night at the airport when he’d spoken softly down the phone, voice heavy with sleep. Or in those few seconds after Punk’s first fight, when they’d locked eyes and everyone else in the world had  creased to exist. Or maybe there had been no development, it had just always been this way from the very beginning.

But Punk was not one to over think. Didn’t waste energy on it.

He sits and watches the sun drag its self up over London, white above thin clouds. The water shuts off and ten minutes later Randy appears in black cotton pants, bare feet and a grey t-shirt.

‘Hey, feelin’ okay?’

He strides past and checks his coffee. Throws it down the sink and starts brewing a fresh cup.

‘I’m fine. You look like a yoga instructor.’

‘You look like shit.’

Punk smirks ‘Fuck you, handsome.’

*

Randy refuses to let Punk do anything all day. He forces him down in front of the TV, cooks him a meal and patches him up the best he can. A four-hour nap, three ice packs and a roll of white bandage later, and Punk is waiting in the car outside the new venue with nerves crawling up his back. Randy emerges from the side entrance, pulls his wool coat up around himself and walks to the car. He cracks the door open and slides in, rubbing the cold out of his hands.

‘Alright. Since I like you so much, I managed to get a few words out of Vince to help this along.’

‘Great.’

‘The pay is good.’

‘How good.’

Randy smirks at him. ‘Real good. I’m gonna say, depending on the outcome, could be over five hundred. Now I know you’re hurting somethin’ crazy but you need to get past that. Get out of that head space. I can heal wounds, I can’t bring you back from the dead. I need you longer than tonight so you gotta focus.’

‘I fucking hope that’s an exaggeration.’

‘Sure, sure. Just be prepared for anything, alright? This time you gotta get the guy down for a three count. That means use whatever force is necessary. He sure as shit won’t be holding back so you better not either. Don’t be scared of hurtin’ him. Knock him down so he won’t get back up. Any luck, this one won’t go south like last time.’

‘You gonna be watching?’

‘Of course.’

‘If it looks like its gonna go…south, I mean, _worse_ than last time, you’ll haul me out?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Alright.’

‘Ready to make me proud?’ Randy looks at Punk, level and with a smile hitching up the corner of his mouth. Punk looks at it for too long. Sniffs, and after a second, nods.

‘Let’s go.’

Punk feels the overwhelming urge to clamber across the slick center console and pull himself into Randy’s lap and tell him to drive them back home. But instead he gets out of the car and lets the icy air shock some sense into him.

He’s gone up in the world. The new venue is a gym in South London. Punk stares past the overpass above him and can see the glittering lights of Canary Wharf across the river. The evening is already dark and cold and bitter. He follows Randy through the side door and down a corridor and then a flight of stairs.

Fluorescent strip lights wash the walls and floor a dirty grey yellow. The place smells of disinfectant and rubber, like a hospital ward. Randy walks ahead of him, a fast, sure pace. They turn down another corridor and Punk can hear the crowd. Randy stops outside a door painted green.

‘This is it. All okay?’

Punk exhales hard. ‘Fuck no.’

‘Tough shit.’ Randy squeezes his shoulder, leaves his hand there. ‘You’re hard as hell. You got this.’

Punk nods. Takes a few deep breaths.

‘I didn’t warm up.’

‘Do it in the ring. It was good last time, kinda intimidating.’

‘You gotta be kidding me,’

Randy smiles and lets his hand drop. ‘Make it scary. C’mon. Go time.’

Punk pulls his shirt off and checks the bandage at his waist. He swallows hard and goes in after Randy.

*

Punk paces around and puts on his best _don’t fuck with me_ face. The crowd is quieter than what Punk is used to, but bigger. So far, he hasn’t heard any dogs. This time the ring is raised off the ground, with proper ropes. He bounces from foot to foot to get his pulse thumping. Rolls his neck and hunches his shoulders up and down. He feels like a bull on market day.

Either he will earn a lot of money or be sent to slaughter.

He breathes deep and settles his eyes on Randy, standing with his arms crossed at ringside. Finds focus in the set of his jaw and the solidness of his stance.

_You got this._

Someone jeers and Punk’s opponent pushes his way up to the ring. Tall and lean and pale, with a shaved head and eyes so light they are almost colourless. He has the same kind of military look as Randy, but cold, and grim. East European, maybe. A stab in the dark. Punk nods his acknowledgment and gets nothing in return. The guy turns to survey the ring and Punk sees a huge gruesome scar on his back running from the top of his neck to his waist, pink-red against his bright white skin.

The bell rings and Punk breathes deep, calm, focused. The guy rounds on him, fast, all fists, jabs, sharp and measured. Punk steps away, holding up his forearms and curling inward and gritting his teeth against the assault. The guy goes at his ribs, straight for the bandage and catches Punk totally off guard. The cut on his waist twinges with a kind of sick warm pain that starts to sprout serious worry in Punk’s mind.

He twists away and steps under the next punch. He shakes his head, tries to get centred and the guy is on him again, kicking at his knees and Punk is dodging on instinct, brain in full defence mode. This is no fucking judo class. This guy wants to hurt him. Wants him bleeding out on the mat, coughing up his own teeth.

Punk dodges down and jabs his fist hard into the guys sternum, straightens his arm out fully, locks his elbow on impact. It buys him all of six seconds while the guy staggers, coughing. Punk searches for a weakness. A quick takedown. Follows him and swings his arm back and powers it forward, twisting his whole body with it and plants a smack on the side of the guy’s head, open palm, right over his ear. Search and destroy. The guy wails and clutches his head, glaring at Punk and baring his teeth like an animal. Any luck his eardrum is burst. Worry turns fleetingly to fear but Punk refuses to let it take hold. Dazed, the guy swings wildly and Punk blocks with his elbow, leans back and kicks him hard under the ribs. The guys falls onto the ropes, gasping.

Punk backs off, makes space and bounces from foot to foot again, stalling for time, regrouping. The guy springs up and ducks his head and runs and before Punk even knows it, the guys got his arm around Punk’s waist and his shoulder in his gut and has tackled him to the ground. The back of his head smacks into the iron post and it makes his teeth crack together. Searing pain blooms on his scalp. The guy scrambles up to sit over his chest and Punk closes his eyes as a fist comes barrelling forward, turns his head and catches it on the cheek. He feels the skin split and warm blood runs down into his hair.

All the weight of the guy pushes down onto his ribs, 250 pounds at least and Punk thrashes under him, tries to squirm away, kicks his legs, tries to get his hands up but the guy punches him again, catching him fast and savage on the jaw and then again on the bridge of his nose. Blood runs down into his mouth and over his lips as he coughs and fights to keep his breath.

Then, the guy starts to choke him.

Both hands clamp around Punk’s neck and start to squeeze. Panic floods his brain. He tries to shout, feels the cartilage in his throat slide against the guy’s thumbs like its bending, breaking. He grabs uselessly at the guys hands, quietly aware of shouting from behind him. Punk scratches and tears at his forearms, mouth bitter with blood, fighting to keep his eyes open. He claws at the guy’s bare chest, ripping streaks of pink into his skin. A violent fear fills him, destroys his resolve and tells him to shut his eyes and let it be over. The hands tighten, crushing down. Punk’s vision clouds, swirling black masses drift in his mind and he feels himself slipping. And then, as if from a hundred miles away, Punk hears Randy’s voice. He’s swearing and yelling ‘ _get him out of there, let me help him, get him the fuck out-_ ’ Punk twists his neck and looks up, behind him, and sees blurred shapes moving, lunging around, pushing, shoving. The guy shakes Punk by the neck, smacks his head into the post again. _Look at me._

The guy’s face is contorted above him, twisted in rage, his pupils tiny pinpricks in his dull grey eyes. Punk gathers himself and spits blood up into that face, all of it, the best he can; in the hope that maybe he will hear Randy’s voice again. The guy loosens his grip for a split second and it’s a split second too long. Punk wrenches his hands away and gasps for air, swings his body up and headbutts the guy square in the face with every ounce of strength he has left.

The guy’s head whips back, a pink mess. He falls sloppily sideways and Punk shoves him off and fights to get up. He staggers to his feet and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, trailing a smear of blood all the way up to his elbow. He touches the back of his head and his fingers come away red and wet. His heart is slamming and his head is spinning and something inside his mind just slips. He is kicking the guy at his feet. Kicking his bare ribs and his stomach, tendons standing out on his pale neck like chords. He curls into a ball and Punk keeps at it, hard and savage and dirty. He drops to one knee and yanks the guy around, whips his fist back and smashes it into his face again and again and suddenly strong hands are pulling him away, gripping him around the waist and hauling him back. He is deaf with fear and fury - deaf to the voices around him, the ringing of the bell, his own incensed shouts -

The guy is limp in front of him and is swallowed by people rushing to his aid. Someone pulls Punk around, spins him on the spot and suddenly Randy is there with a nosebleed and shaking hands, pushing his forehead to Punk’s and gripping his shoulders and the back of his neck – palms now dark with blood.

‘It’s okay, look at me, you’re okay just breathe-’

Half moan, half sob and Punk closes his eyes and lets himself be held up.

‘We have to go, come on, we have to leave. This ain’t right.’ Punk hears the words, the anger and unease in them and he nods over the swathes of pain that roll and crash up through his body. Randy takes his wrist and pulls him across the ring, holds the ropes apart for him to climb through and jumps down at his side. People push roughly past, buffeting them like they’re standing in a river facing upstream.

‘Is he down?’ Punk asks numbly, fighting his way through the crowd with Randy’s arm around his shoulders.

‘He sure is,’ Randy replies. His jaw is tight and his face full of fury.

‘What – what the fuck happened to you? Randy wait - ’ Punk tries weakly to stop them walking but Randy pulls him on.

‘C’mon we gotta go.’

Punk curses under his breath and flings his hand around Randy’s waist and tries to keep up. They crash through the green door and into the too-bright corridor.

‘What happened in there?’ Randy asks as he helps Punk climb the stairs.

‘He tried to fucking choke me. I thought I was a goner but I hear you raising hell and I just fucking snapped. ‘S never happened before.’ Punk spits red onto the white lino.

‘He say anything to you?’

‘Not a word.’

‘Feels like a setup. Shit like that isn’t supposed to happen. I got my fuckin’ nose busted by some asshole when I tried to get in the ring and pull that psycho off you. Just turned around and popped me like he wanted to put me out.’

‘Appreciate it all the same. You hit him back?’

‘Think I broke his jaw.’

They shuffle along the last corridor and back up to the exit. Into the crisp air and the sound of sirens in the distance. Half way across the car park, Randy stops with a groan.

‘I dropped my fucking keys back there. Fuck fuck fuck-’

‘I’m fine, I’m fine. Go.’ Randy untwines himself from Punk and glances at him, anxious. Punk leans against the wall of the gym, the brick cold and soothing on his bare back.

‘I’ll be back. Hang tight.’ Randy jogs back to the door and goes inside. Punk rests his head gently against the wall and closes his eyes, breathing deep. The night is so quiet, Punk thinks maybe he’s losing consciousness. The breeze pushes at him, sharp and bitter. In that moment, he misses Miami with a sickening pang. Misses how alive and familiar it was, like a close friend, like a lover; the warmth and the smells of the night. The back of his neck is damp with blood. He leans forward and lets it run down his throat. Stares at the concrete as it drips down in thick pools and tries to identify the moment it all went wrong. Hunched alone and shivering outside a gym in South London, Punk lets the fear in. He closes his eyes and lets it grab at him, rip at his mind and twist his gut and steal his strength.

Someone told him once the minute you taste your own blood, something changes in you. Punk has had the bitter iron of it on his tongue many times but thinks fleetingly, maybe, this is his moment.

But doubt will destroy you, if you let it.

He starts to laugh. A wild, choked up sound. Feels himself become engulfed in the visceral need to survive, burning through the dread and the panic like an inferno until nothing is left but solid, hard-hearted resolve.

The door slams open to his left and Randy walks towards him, dried blood smeared orange on his mouth and cheeks. Punk goes to him, meets him half way and catches his face in his hands.

He kisses Randy, hard and unafraid.

Randy is quiet and still against him. He touches Punk’s waist lightly, like he’s dazed, making sure he’s real. Punk has never felt this. He isn’t breathing, isn’t thinking. Randy breaks away and looks him hard in the eyes. Starts to say something but all Punk can hear is static. The world tilts and he falls, knees and ribs and shoulder hitting the ground. Randy crouches down, just a distorted shape like he’s underwater. Concrete presses into Punk’s cheek and he feels the scratch of dirt and the slick of blood on his mouth. 

*

Punk is lurching in his seat and the world is fading in and out of his vision. He looks up blearily to see the city lights washing past the window. The roar of the car engine makes his head pound.

‘Hey, hey stay awake.’

Randy.

‘Don’t you dare fall asleep.’

Punk takes a deep breath and tries to sit up but the movement makes him wretch. Randy reaches out for his hand and grips it tightly, eyes still on the road. ‘Just stay awake, we’re nearly there,’ his voice fades and Punk feels his eyes close. He snaps them open and swallows and shakes his head a little. It sparks pain down the back of his neck like fire. Randy is speeding, changing gear with Punk’s hand gripped deftly under his own, muttering under his breath.

Punk licks his lips and blinks himself awake. Tries to speak and doesn’t know what to say.

Two minutes later the car screams to a stop and Randy drops his hand. He flings himself out of his seat and around the bonnet and wrenches the passenger door open. Punk falls out into his arms.

‘Okay you gotta stand up for me, alright?’

‘Randy, - I- can’t see- ’

‘No, no. Shut up with that. Come on. Just get up. Just a little further.’ Something in Randy’s voice, the desperate, pleading note makes Punk focus and tighten his grip around Randy’s waist. Randy kicks the car door shut and they stumble onto the pavement. He drapes his coat around Punk’s shoulders to hide some of the blood and Randy drags him into the lobby to the elevator.

The doors close and Punk slides down the wall like a ragdoll. Randy drops down and gets one arm under his neck and the other in the crook of his knees and gets ready to lift. Punk’s eyes are closed, face bruised and wet with blood. As soon as the doors open Randy heaves Punk up over his shoulder, his arms and legs hanging limply. Randy staggers. He steadies himself, one hand on the wall, and carries Punk down the hall with a sick feeling in his stomach. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is taking so long. The plot got massively rearranged, but it's all fixed now.  
> Hope you enjoy it anyway!


	5. Angels and Demons.

Punk wakes propped up on a mountain of pillows with a headache like nothing he’s ever felt. He entertains the thought that someone must have gone at his skull with a meat cleaver and wonders why he isn’t in hospital. He tries to move and gets a wave of nausea for his trouble. Tries again, just his head this time, and looks around the room. It’s dark outside and the lamp beside him glows warm and dim. The clock next to it says 5:14am. He can hear the muffled rumble of traffic on the streets below.

Randy is slumped down in a chair next to his bed, eyes closed. One side of his white t-shirt is soaked dark rusty red from shoulder to waist and for a sickening, panicked moment, Punk thinks he might be dead.

Then the night comes to him like flashbacks in a bad movie and he realises the blood is his own.

He watches Randy’s chest rise and fall through half-open eyes, gentle and slow. Punk wants to wake him, tell him to go to bed, get some real rest. He licks his lips and swallows with a grimace. His throat is full of shrapnel. He remembers hands around his neck. The pressure of them and how helpless he was to save himself.

He closes his eyes and wills it all away.

_Look at me, you’re okay, just breathe._

He replaces the memory with one of him holding Randy’s face in his hands and kissing him. Replays it over and over and wonders why he held back for so long. 

He sinks back into sleep.

*

The light has changed. Its bright and white and clear and the air is cool on his face. He squints around. 10.27am. Randy has gone and the blinds are only half drawn. Punk can hear voices from another room and frowns trying to recognise them. Randy and someone else, talking low.

Punk sits up a few inches and reaches behind him to pull some pillows away. He chucks them on the floor and lays back down, hearing his spine and neck crack like they always do in the morning. Randy and his visitor are saying quiet goodbyes. A door closes and then there is silence. Two minutes later the shower starts up.

Punk drifts in and out of sleep, lulled by the sound of distant running water.

It’s the door clicking open that wakes him again. Randy pokes his head around, sees Punk awake and comes in, worry all over his face. Black hoodie with nothing underneath and grey sweatpants.

‘Hey you’re up,’ He puts a glass of water on the side, pulls the chair in close and sits. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Like I’ve been hit by a fucking truck.’

‘Any loss of memory, or… you know your name, right?’

‘All good here. Just…hurts that’s all.’

‘I’m not surprised. Your head got split right open. Cody had to come sew you up.’

‘Cody was here?’

‘Yeah. He just left actually. I had to call him…couldn’t do it myself.’ Randy rubs his face. He looks exhausted.

‘You get any sleep?’

‘I stayed up with you until four, I’ve been on a coffee bender since seven.’ He smiles. ‘Here I am bitching about being tired, and look at you.’

‘You should sleep, man. I’m fine I swear.’

‘You don’t look fine.’ He gets up and crosses the room. Looks out of the windows for a moment.

‘I’m sorry about last night. I told Cody how that guy tried to choke you and he said he’s never heard anything like it. So my guess is it was a set up. Maybe someone heard about the new talent and paid them to take you out.’ He glances out across Hyde Park, up at the grey sky, then pulls the blinds shut. The room is seeped in warm light again.

‘S not your fault.’ Punk takes a shaking sip of water and warily touches the back of his head as he swallows it down. Spiky threads stick out of the skin and it makes his stomach feel tight. He settles back down in bed. Randy is staring at him, this _look_ on his face.

‘Don’t give me that. What is it with you? You don’t think I’m responsible for all the shit that happens to you? Because I am. This is _completely_ my fault. If it wasn’t for me, you’d be sitting on the beach in sunny Miami right about now, safe and sound.’

Punk looks at him steadily and lowers the glass back onto the table. ‘I’ll pretend you didn’t just say that. I don’t need a babysitter, alright?’

Randy sighs and rubs at his eyes. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. Just seems like everything’s fucked up since you got here.’ He waves a hand at Punk laying in bed, face dark with bruises. ‘This isn’t what I had in mind when I asked you to get on that plane.’

‘What exactly did you have in mind? I’m a fighter, I’m used to this. Stop panicking, you’re puttin’ me on edge.’

‘I think you’re forgetting that you nearly fuckin’ died last night?’

‘But I didn’t. So that’s one thing that you actually _are_ responsible for. You did your best, can’t ask for more than that.’

‘I feel fucking awful, man. Seriously.’

‘I’d swap feeling awful for feeling like I do right now.’

Randy walks back over to the bed. ‘I gotta say something. Last night…I can’t stop thinking if he actually choked you out, I would’ve killed that guy. Right there and then in front of all those people without a second thought.’

Punk swallows. Randy’s gaze is burning into him. Punk doesn’t even think he’s breathing. He remembers their first meeting, the way he’d felt cornered by that predatory glare, and wonders what Randy would be like if he had really let go. The guy wouldn’t stand a fucking chance.

‘I know that’s maybe a little fucked but it’s the truth.’

‘I’d do the same for you.’

Randy nods to himself, looking down at the carpet. and Punk sees him soften. The tiredness comes back into his face. It makes him look older.

‘One more thing and then I swear I’ll let you sleep. I don’t know if you remember but, last night, right before we left-’

‘I remember.’

‘What was that? A mistake or…’

Punk shrugs weakly and immediately wishes he hadn’t. ‘I don’t do anything unless I mean it. So. There. That’s all I got.’

Punk catches a tiny and slightly bemused smile cross Randy’s face but he stays quiet.

‘You mind me kissin’ you when I thought I was gonna die?’

The smile comes back, a little bigger this time. ‘Surprisingly, no, no I don’t.’

‘Mind if I keep doing it, even when I’m not all dumb and busted up?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Alright then.’

Punk rolls his shoulders and stretches into the pillow, shifting to get comfortable.

‘You need to rest now.’

He breathes out a laugh. ‘I sure as hell intend to. Vince wants me to fight any time soon he can go fuck himself.’

‘I hear that.’

Punk closes his eyes. ‘You gonna get in this bed or what.’

Randy is silent for a few seconds and then Punk hears the sound of fabric on skin and cracks an eye open. Randy chucks his hoodie onto the floor and stands there, pants low on his slim hips, looking like he’s just developed stage fright.

Punk scowls like he’s looking into the sun. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get over that body.

‘I’m not gonna get any fuckin’ rest if you stand there lookin’ at me like that any longer.’

‘Are you sure?’

That’s a tone Punk’s never heard from him before.

‘Never been more sure of anything in my life.’ He raises his arm and motions _come on_ with his fingers.

Randy frowns a little and then shrugs. He hits the light switch on the wall and climbs into the bed. The mattress sinks under his weight.

*

Waves lapped long and slow at the sand, in and out, like the ocean was breathing. Punk pushed his toes into the water and watched it run over his skin, glinting in the bright light. The sun was hot on his face and the air was thick and warm. He looked to his right and saw Cody lounging next to him with his eyes closed, skin shimmering with tiny beads of sweat. To his left and the sand was indented, smoothed down like someone had been laying there. He twisted and looked behind him and saw Randy walking towards them, just a few feet away, a case of beer clutched under one arm.

Punk tried to get up to meet him but his body felt heavy, sluggish. His feet were buried up to the ankles now. The waves dragged at them, beckoning him into the water.

He called out to Randy but his voice got lost in the gasping of the tide and the screeching of gulls overhead.

A sharp pop rang through the air, like the crack of a whip. Tinny and muffled. Randy lurched sideways, slow, lagged, and hit the ground. The bottles were shattered and beer sprayed out in floods. Panic tore at Punk’s chest and he struggled to get up but the water around his feet was dragging him down, he was sinking -

He tried to yell for Cody, to make him look but nothing came out of his mouth. He could see blood soaking into the sand, pooling around Randy’s body like an oil spill –

He sits up and stares around the room, heart thumping like a jackhammer in his chest. Its dark and too warm and for a few seconds he can’t remember where he is or why – his ears are ringing from the gunshot –

‘Randy?’

A muffled groan to his left and the mattress dips. ‘Mmmf?’ his voice is quiet and so low Punk doesn’t even know if he really heard it – if he could see him, just know that it wasn’t real -

‘Where are you?’ Punk stares and flings a hand into the dark, searching.

‘I’m here, I’m right here,’ sounds like his face is pressed into the pillow. Punk feels the cover shift over him and his hand finds Randy’s wrist in mid air.

‘’S wrong?’

‘You were dead, you got shot, I…’

‘…No one got shot, it was just another dream.’

‘Yeah...Yeah I know. Fuck. It felt real…’ Punk breathes out deeply and lays back down, blinking into the darkness.

‘Worse’n the choking one?’

‘Thanks for bringing that up, jesus _christ_ ,’

Randy laughs into his pillow and slinks his arm around Punk’s waist. ‘Sorry.’ His fingers stroke gently along Punk’s ribs, back and forward.

‘I’m okay, I’m right here.’ He murmurs.

Punk swallows and lays his arms up above his head. He closes his eyes and lets the feather-light touch of Randy’s fingertips calm his mind. He’d never known anyone to bring him back down as fast as this. Just like that, a little pressure and a little warmth and the fear is gone.

When did he become so attached? When did he get so dependant?

*

He wakes six hours later with the mother of all dead arms and the flat London light glaring in through a gap in the blinds. Randy is using his bicep as a pillow and his entire arm is cold and numb.

Punk was never the type to gaze lovingly down at anyone while they slept and he’d be damned if he’d start doing it now. He wriggles his fingers and gently lifts his arm away, shaking life back into it. Randy frowns in his sleep and rolls over, pulling the covers up over his shoulders. Ink disappears underneath white cotton like it was never there. The pain in Punk’s head has subsided to a dull ache and he sits up without wanting to vomit.

He shuffles to the bathroom and sheds his clothes. Someone, maybe Cody, had taken the bandage off his waist. The knife wound was red and inflamed from being repeatedly knocked. He touches his cheek lightly and peels off the fabric plaster stuck there with a hiss. He can already feel how swollen that side of his face is. He climbs slowly into the shower, purposefully avoiding the mirrored wall behind him. He wasn’t vain. He’d just become pretty attached to what his face used to look like and was nowhere near ready to see Mark 2.

The water turns rusty red at his feet as blood washes off his skin and he watches it flow down the drain in streaks. The jets hammer away at his shoulders and neck, beating life back into him.

*

Back in his bedroom and Randy is sitting shirtless in bed, propped against the wall in front of the biggest TV Punk’s ever seen.

With a towel around his waist and beads of water still on his chest, Punk ambles over to the bed. ‘Didn’t know we got tickets to the movies.’ He sinks down onto the mattress. Randy shrugs.

‘Figured you’re gonna be spending a shit load of time in here. Wheeled it in from my room.’ He holds up DVD cases, three in each hand. ‘What’s your favourite genre?’

‘Anything that makes me laugh.’

‘Otherwise known as comedy…’ Randy sifts through discs and cases on his lap. ‘I ordered food. You up to eating?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Alright. Get dressed and shit, I’m gonna make us a man cave.’

‘This whole place is a goddamn man cave. I bet a woman never stepped foot in here.’ Punk gets up and roots around in his black sports bag for some clothes. A pillow comes whizzing through the air and hits him square on the ass.

‘You haven’t unpacked yet?’

Randy stares at him, incredulous.

‘I’ve been kinda preoccupied?’ Punk motions to his face, circles his finger around it to prove a point. ‘Anyway, I didn’t know how long I’d be staying here…’

‘Unpack your shit. You got all the time in the world, now. I’ll take you out when you’re feelin better and you can get some new stuff.’

‘Thanks mom.’

‘Fuck you,’

Punk ducks under another airborne pillow and gives Randy his middle finger and a smartass smirk before going back into the bathroom.

He pulls on a pair of boxers and brushes his teeth. For a second he forgets himself and glances up into the mirror, and his toothbrush slips right out of his mouth and lands in the sink with a clatter. His face is a spectacular watercolour of blue, purple and yellow bruising. The skin on his cheekbone is split in the shape of an L, swollen and angry-looking and bulging under his blackened eye. There is a cut on the bridge of his nose and a dark bruise spread over his jaw.

He takes a deep guess-it-could-be-worse breath and splashes cold water on the most tender parts. He pats them dry with a towel that still has the tag on, little pink spots of blood soaking into the fluffy white fabric. 

‘I look like a goddamn train wreck and you didn’t tell me.’ Punk closes the bathroom door behind him and walks to the bed, climbs back in with a groan.

‘No point in worrying you. It’s nothing permanent anyway, you’ll be back to your beautiful, slightly haggard self before you know it.’ Randy points the remote at the TV and starts up an awful horror-remake. Punk shifts down beside him and rests his head on his shoulder.

‘You’re an asshole.’


	6. Decisions Part I

The thing about getting your head split open on a metal pole is that sometimes, the full effects take a while to kick in. The headaches and dizziness are there from the start and they don’t leave, not for a few days. But the noise sensitivity, the irritability and the insomnia, they feed into your system slowly, like drugs in a drip.

Punk lays on his side, one arm hanging off the bed, fingers toying with a thread on the carpet. He looks out at the sky, so clear and so blue it could almost be home.

Dawn. The sun is a disc of pure molten gold as it pushes up over the horizon, filling the world with life and yellow light. He blinks into the gentle glare of it and revels in the quiet, twisted in the sheets and alone.

He’d woken at 2am, like a switch had been thrown.

He knew Randy was gone the second he opened his eyes. He’d turned his head on the pillow to see the covers pulled back and the sheets creased. He laid his hand out and found the fabric cold.  

He waits until the sunlight creeps across the room and touches the tips of his fingers, a warm bright arc. He hauls himself out of bed and pulls on one of Randy’s discarded t-shirts.

The hall is shadowed and quiet. Weak light slinks under the blinds in the lounge, filtering out and reaching across the shiny wood floor. The door to the room opposite is open a crack. Punk can see Randy on the bed, stretched out on his side facing the window, all smooth curves like a marble sculpture. The blinds are open, spilling out flat blue light from the wrong side of the morning sky.

‘Some people would find it weird, you hanging around outside their bedroom.’

Punk smiles and pushes the door open. ‘This isn’t your bedroom.’ The walls are bare, everything is cream and white and unused. It’s a near exact replica of the room they’d been sharing for the last four days. But colder, somehow.

Randy sits up, swings his legs over the edge of the bed and rubs at the back of his neck.

Punk leans against the door. ‘You sick of me?’

‘Thought I’d give you some space.’

‘I don’t want space. I’ve had enough of it to last a lifetime.’

Randy smiles a little. ‘Want me back already, huh? Takin’ up all the room and snoring non stop?’

‘Jus’ thought that seeing the sun come up after another night with no sleep wouldn’t be so bad if I was with you.’

Randy stares at him, a look on his face like his world has just crashed down around him.

‘What?’

Randy shakes his head, ‘No, nothing. Just. No ones ever said anything like that to me before.’

Punk shrugs. ‘I’m exhausted. I don’t have a filter for the dumb shit that comes out of my mouth.’ He smiles wearily and looks down, pushes a hand through his hair. Somehow, in this room things are different. More real.

‘It’s okay. Its…I like it this way.’

‘Well don’t get used to it.’

‘I don’t know how to do this.’

‘Do what?’

‘I dunno,’ he motions between them. ‘This.’

‘And what _is_ this?’ Punk mimics the movement.

‘Do you wanna talk about it?’

He sucks in a deep breath. ‘How painful is it going to be? Because I might go slam my head in your car door instead-’

A small laugh. ‘Don’t be a jerk, I’m tryna be serious.’

‘Alright, alright.’ Punk slides down the door and sits on the carpet, brings his knees up. He leans his head back gently and waits.

Randy looks like he’s trying to physically force words from his brain to his mouth.

‘I have this, I dunno, this thing. People that are important to me, I never tell them.’ He looks at Punk, level.  ‘I never say it enough. Guess I just don’t know how. My Dad was kinda a hardass, he hated all this stuff.’ He shrugs and looks out of the window, focuses on something, maybe nothing. ‘But it always happens, they leave or I leave and its too late and there’s nothing I can do. So I wanna say it now. Because so far things haven’t gone the way I expected and you’re either gonna hightail it outta here or if you like me as much as I think you do, you’ll stick around and maybe that’s actually worse. So I wanna make sure you know. You’re important to me. Really, really important. I like you, a lot.’

Punk stares down at his hands because the look on Randy’s face is too much. He turns the words over in his head, tries to find the right thing to say.

‘I’m not going anywhere.’ He says, soft, murmured. He forces himself to look up. ‘I’ve never opened myself up to anyone. Not a single person. But I’ll do it for you. Spill my guts out all over the floor and break my head open over and over. Doesn’t matter. I never wanted to be with anyone like I want to be with you.’ He shakes his head. ‘I don’t know what this is, but I’ve needed it since the second I met you. And I’m not giving it up for anything. Not unless you say so.’

Randy swallows hard and a smile pulls at one corner of his mouth. ‘I say come here.’

Punk pushes off the floor and heaves himself up on weak, aching legs. Walks to the bed and lets Randy take his hands. Their fingers link together, gently entwining and locking perfectly in place. Randy pushes Punk’s knuckles to his mouth, touches his lips to the letters tattooed there as if they were Braille.

‘You don’t have to wake up without me ever again. Promise.’


	7. Decisions Part 2

_I've been dreaming of things yet to come_  
 _Living, learning, watching, burning_  
 _Eyes on the sun_

_Im leaving, gone yesterday_  
 _Brutal, laughing, fighting, fucking_  
 _A price I had to pay_

*

It boiled down to this. What they had was friendship. A kind of friendship so intense that sometimes Punk would be struck by it almost physically, like a blow to the chest. He’d stare at Randy across the room, stretched out on the couch with his arms folded above his head as he watched endless sitcom reruns, or he’d look up into that face when he woke, dazed from sleep and Punk would feel the world close in and focus on him, sudden and crystal clear. Punk would look into those slate blue eyes and it would feel like he’d found the other half of himself he didn’t even know he was missing. And now, with a savage kind of protectiveness, he’d kill to keep himself whole.

There is no room for awkwardness or hesitation. They simply exist without pressure, side by side in the delicate limbo between friends and lovers. Sometimes it feels more like one than the other but that’s what makes it so good, so natural. They are teetering blissfully on the edge of something Punk has no idea if he is ready for but is enjoying more than anything in his life.

Randy would check his stitches in the morning, check how he was healing, brushing his fingers lightly over the threads and Punk would sit and wince at the sting, but wouldn’t pull away. And Randy would sleep and Punk would lay next to him and get lost in his own thoughts, eyes fixed on the high white ceiling, counting screws in the light fittings.

The insomnia came in waves. A few small ripples and then, out of nowhere a surging flood that would knock him flat.

Randy had gone for a run. Slapped his perfectly toned abs and said he was going to crawl out of his skin if he didn’t get some exercise. Punk had desperately wanted to go with him but Randy set his jaw and squared his shoulders and flat-out refused. Pulled on criminally tight running shorts and told Punk not to get in any trouble while he was gone. Punk is left rattling around in the apartment with nothing but cold, still silence and exhaustion for company. He is overcome by a kind of itching, nagging feeling of regression. Of getting stale. His muscles feel limp and weak like he’s wasting away. The urge to fight is resurfacing, like an animal pleading to be fed.

But five days of bed-rest will do that to a man.

He clicks the door of Randy’s bedroom open and goes inside, hoping for a quick session on the weights bench, just to get his blood pumping again. He expects it to be exactly like the rest of the apartment; hollow, unused, barely lived in, and he is right. Cream walls, thick carpet, white sheets. There are no signs of life at all except for a row of photographs lined up on the dresser, four in all. Punk picks one up - Randy when he was a teenager standing with his arm around a pretty redhead. He’s already tall but not built like he is now. Slimmer, softer, more open somehow. The next, Randy a little older, a snapshot from a family dinner all bleached with age. A woman kisses him on the cheek, his eyes scrunched shut and a huge smile on his face. Punk feels a smile of his own tug at his mouth as he sets it down and moves along to the next. A man and the woman from the last photo sitting on a bench together, a young girl between them, all squinting in the sun. Two boys, both young sit at their feet. One with a baseball glove in his lap, the other with grazed knees and an ice cream leaking over his hand and down to his elbow. The next and last photo is of Randy and a man that looks strikingly like him, same jaw, same grey blue eyes but darker hair and slight. God, they had good genes. The boy with the ice cream, all grown up.

Punk gently puts the photo back and steps away, glances at them all together and gets the urge to pick up the phone and call his father. But he doesn’t. He leaves the room, closes the door quietly behind him and heads for the shower.

*

He scrawls a note to Randy and leaves it on the kitchen counter. Grabs a spare key and some change from a dish by the door and goes downstairs to hail a cab.

_Going to the gym before I lose my mind._

_Sorry_

_-P_

London is bright and seeped in winter sunshine. Punk listens to the driver talk and looks down at the river as they sit stuck in traffic across the bridge, a wide belt of choppy brown city water hurrying beneath them to the ocean.

The guy on the desk at the gym recognises him and takes him through to the back. It’s mostly empty, just a few scattered guys sparring. Punk’s mood shifts, now in this bright space full of things he can hurt himself with, use to calm his frayed nerves. He breathes in the smell of rubber and leather and air conditioning and its like coming home. Suddenly he doesn’t feel so keyed up.

He dumps his things in a locker and tapes his knuckles. Spends half an hour knocking shit out of a punching bag. He manages three pathetic miles on the treadmill before his head starts to hurt and his legs cramp and his stomach turns like its trying to make him sick. He is slowing to a jog when someone calls his name, sharp and loud from across the room.

He twists round, jabbing the slow button on the machine. Cody is standing in a boxing ring about twenty feet away, pointing at him with a gloved hand, breathing hard. Punk curses under his breath and wipes sweat out of his eyes. He steps off the treadmill and wanders over, panting. Cody’s sparring partner jumps down from the ring and walks away, gasping and damn near doubled over.

Cody has a smile on his face like he’s trying not to get angry. ‘What the hell are you doing here man?’

Punk rubs the back of his neck and blows out a breath. ‘Had to get out of that apartment. I was going nuts holed up in there.’

 ‘Does Randy know you’re here?’ His eyes skim over Punk’s bruised face.

‘Not yet, but he will.’

‘Jesus. I knew you were tough but this is ridiculous.’

Punk shrugs. ‘I’ve got a reputation to keep, right?’

‘You’re crazy. Seriously. I’m like 90 percent sure you’re insane.’

That makes Punk smile. He grabs a rope and pulls himself up onto the edge of the ring with a groan. ‘Thanks for looking out for me. Randy said you came and, you know. Sewed my head up.’

Cody nods, starts stripping his gloves off. ‘No problem man. I’ve sewed up my own face so many times, wasn’t worth going to the hospital for. How you feeling?’

‘Like I wanna fight.’

Cody smiles. ‘All in good time.’

‘Randy spoke to you about what happened the other night? You think we were set up?’

‘Without a doubt. I’ve seen some mad stuff here but from what I heard…that shit was on a whole new level. Guy actually tried to put you down? Like, permanently?’

Punk nods and wipes his palms on his shorts. ‘Tried, yeah.’

‘You know, I’ve never seen Randy angry like he was when he asked me to come and help you out.’ Cody drops his gloves at his feet and starts fixing the tape around his hands, massaging his knuckles. ‘He was so mad he could barely speak.’

‘He feels responsible. Which is crazy, but you know him.’

Cody looks at him, deadly serious. ‘You remember what I said to you, first time we met?’

‘Sure.’

‘You did it, didn’t you? You got in deep with him.’

Punk feels the start of a smirk pull across his face and fights it off. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

‘Means, I’ve never seen him like that. Ever. I said he was mad but that wasn’t even the half of it. He was torn up. He was on the fucking warpath. I had to lock us in and hide the keys until morning so he wouldn’t go back there and end up killing someone. So you can say that’s just his nature, but I call bullshit. That wasn’t him being protective. That was him out of his mind. Anything you wanna tell me?’

Punk is torn between punching him and telling him everything. Considering how bust up he is still, he picks the latter. He takes a breath.

‘I did something, alright?’

‘What, what the hell did you do?’ Genuine concern strikes across Cody’s face and he takes a step forward. Punk swallows.

‘I kissed him.’

‘You f- you _what_?’ Cody smiles half-heartedly like Punk’s told him the punch line to a joke he doesn’t get.

Punk shrugs one shoulder. ‘I kissed him. And he kissed me back. And it was fucking great. And he’s been sleeping in my bed with me the last five nights. If you have a problem with that then we’re gonna have to sort that out right now-’

Cody holds his hands up. ‘Wh-no, no I have no problems. I just… _what_?’

‘Can’t say it any plainer.’

‘I didn’t know – he’s not gay.’

‘Neither am I. Never liked a guy before in my life.’

‘I’m having a hard time catching up with this.’

‘Join the fucking club.’

‘So, what. You just did it out of nowhere? No reason? Was it just, you know, an experiment?’

Punk sighs. He’s uncomfortable, starting to regret starting the conversation. ‘Look, I damn near got choked out. I got a serious smack on the head and, I don’t know. It set me straight, put everything in perspective. Its really as simple as it sounds. And, have you _seen_ the fucking guy? I defy anyone to keep their hands off that.’

A smile spreads across Cody’s face. Bemused but genuine. ‘I was right, you are insane.’ He points at Punk’s chest. ‘You two are meant for each other.’

‘Yeah, yeah. Don’t get ahead of yourself.’ Punk tugs at the rope in his hands, quiet for a moment. Cody props a hand on his hip and looks at him, watches him get lost in his head.

‘You look wound up.’

Punk glances at him standing there all young and fresh, sweat beaded on his forehead. He laughs. ‘I guess you could say that. It’s been a pretty surreal week.’

‘Want someone to take it out on?’

Punk smiles and ducks under the ropes. ‘Absolutely.’

*

Punk slides the key into the lock and pushes the front door open. The kitchen is in semi darkness. Randy stands at the open fridge, just a towel around his waist, white light spilling over him like liquid. He turns and it illuminates him, casts shadows like he’s a piece of art.

 ‘Hey.’ All tattoos and skin. Legs that go on for miles. Punk imagines them locked around his back.

_You two are meant for each other._

‘I had to go out, I was so wired.’ Punk drops his bag and walks to Randy, weightless.

‘It’s alright, I know that feeling.’ Randy shuts the fridge door and leans against it. ‘You okay? Feeling better?’

‘Yeah, I’m fine.’ They face each other for a few seconds and the air is full and thick. Drops of water rest on the hollow of Randy’s throat, glinting like tiny jewels in the dim light. He’s fresh out of the shower. Punk can smell soap on him.

‘I told Cody about us.’

‘Oh yeah? What’d he say?’

‘He said I was insane.’

Randy smiles. Reaches out and touches Punk’s waist. Slides his hand down to his hip and pulls him closer. His fingers dip under the hem of Punk’s shirt, warm and rough. ‘He’s probably right.’

‘Nothin’ you didn’t already know, right?’

‘Right.’

Punk tilts his chin up and pushes his mouth to Randy’s, steady and sure. Randy’s hands come slowly up to hold either side of his face like he never wants to let go. He brushes his thumbs along Punk’s cheekbones and into his hair.

Its just like Punk remembers. No hesitation, no doubt. Pure and resolute.

Punk lets his hands wander over the smooth curve of Randy’s shoulders, the cut shapes of his torso, the slim line of his hips. Randy is smiling against his mouth and groping him like a teenager.

‘It’s better without the blood.’

‘Shut up.’ Punk laughs as he hops up onto the counter top behind with a small pained groan. He pulls Randy in between his legs and kisses him again, one hand on the back of his neck. Randy’s tongue slides against his, slow and warm and careful.

‘Do you want me to-’

‘Yeah,’ Punk breathes against him, losing himself in Randy’s skin and his hands and mouth. Randy tugs at the waistline of his shorts and snaps the hem against him, frustrated.

‘You gotta take these off.’

‘Ever been with a guy before?’

He stops dead. ‘No, have you?’

‘No.’

Punk lifts his hips up and watches Randy slide his shorts and boxers down over his legs and drop them on the floor.

‘I’m no expert but I’m not about to let this be a dry fuck.’

Punk smiles, cheeks flushing, and runs his hands up Randy’s chest. ‘Wing it. Spit, just fuckin’ spit on me, I don’t care.’

‘I don’t have that much spit!’

Punk starts to laugh and doesn’t stop until he feels Randy’s hand push his thighs apart, strong and sure, and his fingers slick slowly inside him, one, then two. His laugh dies in his throat and comes back as a hard breathless moan. He grips the edge of the counter.

‘I don’t wanna hurt you,’ Randy murmurs against him, so low Punk feels it in his chest.

‘I can take it, just hurry the fuck up,’ his head hits back against the wall as he shuffles a few inches down. His knees come up, feet hooking on the edge of the counter.

Randy moves in close and pushes into him, just a little, slow and controlled. It’s a hard burn that makes every muscle in their bodies tense. Punk’s fingers curl into Randy’s neck and forearm as he hisses air sharply past his teeth. Randy is focused, searching for signs that it’s too much to take. He pushes his hips steadily forward then rolls them back, hands tight on Punk, holding him there like he’s fighting to keep composure.

‘This okay?’

Punk nods frantically, closes his eyes and waits it out. Nothing ever hurt so much but felt so good at the same time – and then he starts to relax and the hurt disappears and just the good is left.

‘Yeah. I’m fine. C’mon-’

Randy starts to move and the words leave him. It’s like he is made of sensations, just touch and sound and sight – the grip of fingers, hot breath, the slap of Randy’s skin against his own, the sounds falling from his mouth, slurred and messy. Punk hears his voice like it belongs to a stranger - ‘ _Fuck_ , god, yes-’

The city is laid out behind them, orange and black and grey against the curved slope of Randy’s shoulders. They hunch and tense and he pushes a hand out on the wall and leans in, all hot bites on Punk’s neck, curses breathed out of a wet mouth – ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck-’

Punk is losing himself. Coming undone, - its like he’s floating off the ground, outside of his own body. He catches Randy’s jaw in his hand and pulls him in, moaning on his mouth as Randy hitches his hips up higher, rolls them upward and pulls Punk down onto him, hard and mind-numbingly precise. No theatrics, no bravado - just straight up carnal, desperate fucking.

Randy is murmuring a mantra of sighed curses, his voice is deep and rushed and he is building the rhythm and slipping into the void but it only makes him better – feral and urgent and every move he makes sparks a sweet dark pressure in Punk’s gut. His eyes slide shut as he murmurs and moans wordlessly. Randy kisses his open mouth, swallowing his breath, tongue sliding against his lips. His thighs start to shake and his back arches up -

‘I– _fuck_ -’

Punk digs his fingers into Randy’s forearms and comes, his head pressed back against the wall. Randy drops his head down on Punk’s shoulder, biting a groan into the skin as he comes seconds later, riding it out, jerking his hips. He gasps and falls against Punk, still for a few seconds, nothing but the sounds of their breathing. He starts to laugh, steadying himself on shaking legs.

Punk coughs his breath back and feels a smile tug at his mouth. Randy looks up and kisses him, slow and still, their mouths together in a moment of perfect blissful silence. Punk’s fingers relax and twine around Randy’s wrists, circling them gently. He breathes out hard as Randy moves away, dropping his legs back down on the counter. He flattens his ruined shirt over himself. Touches the back of his head and curses, fingers skimming over the split in his scalp.

‘I think I tore my stitches.’

Randy looks at him as he half-walks half-staggers to the sink and breathes out a laugh. ‘I hope it was worth it.’

Punk stares at Randy as he washes his hands, naked in the grey-orange glow of the night. Two weeks ago he’d never known this guy existed. Now they’re fighting all over London and fucking on kitchen counters. His shakes his head in humble disbelief and slips down to the floor. He walks to Randy, lays his hands on Randy’s hips and leans his forehead against the nape of his neck. Closes his eyes.

‘I’m gonna take a shower.’

‘Okay.’

‘You’re coming with me.’

Randy shuts off the water and turns. Punk’s hands slide around him and he looks up into his face. ‘And then I am going to sleep for a fucking year.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bright Lights - 30 Seconds to Mars


	8. Gods and Monsters

Punk wakes suddenly from a dream about Miami. Waves and sand and the sound of sirens.

The phone is ringing in the apartment, painfully shrill. He blinks in the morning light and heaves himself up on an elbow. 8:45am. Randy is asleep next to him, laying on his front with one arm up above his head. Punk pushes at it. ‘Wake up. Phone’s ringing.’

Randy mumbles something and frowns, curls into himself and settles instantly back to sleep. The phone goes silent for all of thirty seconds before it starts to ring again.

‘Asshole.’ Punk pushes at Randy’s arm again, rocking it uselessly on the pillow like a dead limb. ‘Wake _up_.’

Randy opens his eyes and squints around, face crumpled. ‘Whatthefuck,’ Mumbled, raspy and quiet.

‘Get the phone before I smash it.’ Punk pulls his pillow over his head and buries his face in it, blocking out the noise. He feels the mattress dip and hears a muffled click as the door opens. He tries to sink back into his dream, tries to recall the heat of real sun on his back and the clink of ice cubes in his glass. He’s almost there when he feels Randy’s hand on him, a rough palm sweeping up to his shoulder. He shifts onto his back and presses the pillow over his face like he’s trying to suffocate himself. Randy’s hand nudges him in the ribs and he groans through the fabric, scrunches his eyes closed and tries to ignore the world.

Randy yanks the pillow away with a laugh. ‘You are a fucking child. C’mon. Up.’

Punk gives in, only because Randy is there wearing nothing but tight black boxers and a smile. He sits up, scratching his head and yawning. ‘It’s probably a criminal offence to wake a person with insomnia.’

‘Finally sleeping again, huh?’

‘I fucking _was_.’ He gets up and walks to the bathroom, trailing a hand over Randy’s stomach as he passes. He leaves the door open a crack. ‘Better be a good reason why I’m not any fucking longer…’

‘Vince wants to see you.’

‘Vince can suck my dick.’

He hears Randy laugh and the sound of bedsprings. ‘You’re a morning person, right?’

Punk looks at his face in the mirror, yellow and brown with bruises, and scowls. ‘Fuck you.’ The split on his cheek has scabbed over and the swelling has gone down but he is still no oil painting, all stubble and dark circles. He gets in the shower and washes the blur of sleep from his eyes and his mind.

The previous night comes back to him all at once, like being hit by a truck. A smirk tilts his lips and he breathes out hard and turns the water cold, rubs his face to get the sudden heat out of his cheeks. All the stories about being in pain the morning after are bullshit, he finds. Maybe he was expecting screaming agony from his ass to his fingertips, but feels nothing more than a vague weakness in his thighs and small dull ache in his spine.

Back in the bedroom and Randy is sitting on the edge of the bed, one leg folded under him. Grey t-shirt and black jeans. He waves his phone at Punk. ‘He wants you there in half an hour.’

‘I liked you better without clothes.’ Punk looks him up and down and smiles a little, buckles his belt. ‘You drivin?’

‘No, Vince said I gotta go see Cody and the guys. Haven’t shown my face down there for a while and I’m sure he’ll have a few things he wants to get off his chest. I called you a cab.’

‘Better get my ass outta here then.’ Punk pulls on a jacket over his t-shirt. Randy gets up and walks to him, suddenly looking uneasy. Punk feels a frown pull at his face. ‘Everything okay? You look like you’re gonna puke.’

Randy shrugs and forces the most unconvincing smile Punk’s ever seen. ‘Yeah, its nothing. You better go.’

Punk looks at him a little longer and then nods. ‘Alright. You can tell me later.’

‘Yeah. Try not to punch Vince, okay?’

‘Can’t make any promises.’ Punk cups his hand around Randy’s neck and kisses the corner of his mouth, lets his fingers linger on the soft skin under the collar of his shirt.

He leaves Randy standing alone in the room and tries to ignore the small itch of worry in the back of his mind.

*

Rain pelts down from a heavy iron grey sky. The cab drops him off in Hammersmith in front of a huge glass building full of offices. Punk hurries up the front steps, shoulders hunched against the torrent. He stops at the front desk and watches the receptionist’s eyes flick over his face and down at his tattooed hands with a kind of sickened curiosity. She directs him to the elevator and tells him floor 14. The whole place smells like money and warm electrical circuits.

The doors slide open and he walks up the hall, phones ringing quietly all around inside glass fronted rooms. Another receptionist at the end, blonde hair curled over her shoulder, stocking-clad legs crossed, heels pushing dents into the carpet.

‘I’m here to see Vince.’ He stops in front of her and she looks up, dark blue eyes.

‘Just a minute.’

She flicks through a notepad, long slender fingers. ‘Punk? Mr…Punk?’

He smirks. ‘Mhm.’

‘You’re late.’

He knows he isn’t.

‘Sorry ma’am.’

She purses her lips and looks him up and down. Presses a buzzer on the phone console on her desk and the door behind her clicks open. Punk gets the impression it’s all meant to be very intimidating.

But he beats people for a living. It takes a lot more than nice decor and a pretty girl to make him tremble.

Vince’s office is bright and expensive-looking. The same feel as Randy’s apartment. Efficient and stylish but nothing real, nothing personal. Vince sits at his desk, on the phone. Its clutched in his fist like he isn’t used to holding it. He’s tall and lean, over fifty for sure. Small, devious eyes. Suit the same iron grey as his hair. Watch on his wrist worth more than anything Punk’s ever owned in his life.

He locks eyes with Punk and holds his hand up, _sorry_. Motions for him to sit. Punk takes a seat opposite and looks out at the city, the water streaking down the windows. He wonders if Randy is looking at the same sky. Maybe he’s out, running in the rain. Maybe he’s at the gym with Cody, sweating and swearing and swinging punches. Vince finishes his phone call with a hard sigh. Doesn’t say anything, just starts rifling through a drawer, brow furrowed.

Punk crosses one leg over his knee and leans back in his seat. Taps his fingers  against his thigh. If there’s one thing that makes his blood boil, it’s being ignored.

_Keep your mouth shut around him and you’ll get on just fine_.

Vince pulls out a brown envelope and slides it across the desk towards him. ‘Your pay.’

Punk takes it. Feels thick and full.

‘Much appreciated.’

Vince fixes his eyes on Punk, like he can see inside his head. ‘You and I need to have words.’

‘I’m all ears.’

‘I understand things went sideways at your last match.’

‘You could say that, yeah.’

‘It won’t do. I can’t have you snapping like that. I have to be able to trust you. Understand?’

Punk feels the disbelieving smile spread across his face. ‘You’re kidding, right?

‘I’m not kidding. You fucked up last week. Made a goddamn mess of yourself and a fool out of me in the process.’

‘That guy tried to _kill_ me. Last time I looked, that wasn’t part of the deal.’

Vince slams his fist on the desk and phone rattles in its cradle.

‘ _There is no deal._ You’re not in charge here. Get that through your thick fucking skull alright?’

Punk stares at him, cold as ice. This is going south, fast. And Vince isn’t done yelling. ‘What I say, goes. You do what I tell you, or you can kiss sweet goodbye to this cushy little life with Orton you got going on.’ Something in his eyes. A threat. ‘You fight great but your attitude needs some fucking work, I’ll tell you that much.’

‘Randy might think you’re a stand-up guy but I sure as shit don’t. And I’m not scared of you. I’m just angry. What exactly did you do to him?’ Punk’s voice, quiet, steady.

‘I gave him a shot at a new life, when his old one was suffocating him. Exactly like you.’

‘He doesn’t need help anymore. Why the fuck he’s still here taking orders from a poisonous asshole like you is a mystery to me.’

‘I’ll tell you what it is, it’s none of your goddamn business. I learned this lesson young, and I learned it the hard way. I’m doing you a favour here so listen good. Keep your fucking nose out of what doesn’t concern you.’

‘Randy concerns me.’

Vince smiles. Looks at the ceiling like he’s praying for strength. Back down with eyes like steel. Cold and unyielding. ‘You don’t seem to be getting this so I’ll spell it out for you real clear. He is more than my employee. I own him. I decide where he lives, how long he stays, what car he drives, where he goes, what he gets paid and who he sees. If I wanted, I could decide what fuckin’ clothes he wears. He is my business. You are not. You are nothing. You are a brawler. A scapegoat. A crowbar on tough guys that just won’t crack any other way. You are only worth what you can do with those fists. You get above your grade, you get too big for your boots and you are gone. Like you were never here. Like you never fucking existed. Next time you think you’re being smart, next time you stick your neck out, you’re gonna lose your head. Now get the hell out of my office and don’t you dare mess up like that again.’

Punk looks into Vince’s face and clenches his jaw, reigns in the fury to stop himself flying across the desk and smashing Vince’s head into it.

‘You should treat Randy better. He’s the only thing standing between you and I. And my god, you better hope it stays that way.’

He pushes his chair behind him and it tips backwards with a thump. He leaves, slamming the door. Down the corridor and into the elevator, across the lobby and out onto the street, into the deluge. He bangs shoulders with a guy walking the other way, too incensed to even apologise.

He breathes deep and looks up and down the street. Picks right and walks until he finds a phone store. Doesn’t take more than fifteen minutes to pick one out and let the guy set it up for him.

Punk pulls his hood up over his head and goes back outside into the rain. He dials Randy’s number without thinking. Maybe its proof that Punk was a goner the second they laid eyes on each other that he remembers it out of nowhere. 

‘Hello?’

‘Randy?’

‘Yeah?’

‘It’s me. Where are you?’

‘I’m at the gym. You okay? You sound weird.’

‘Yeah, yeah I guess. I’ll meet you there, we gotta talk.’

‘Fuck, you didn’t hit him, did you?’

‘No. Got no idea how I restrained myself. That guy’s a fucking piece of work.’

*

Fifteen Minutes Earlier

Randy heaved the barbell up over his head and clicked it back in place with a groan. Cody stood over him, watching. Randy sat up from the bench to catch his breath, wiping sweat off his face with his forearm. Cody had been quiet since he’d got there. Pouting and brooding. Randy was enjoying the peace, in no rush to ask him _cat got your tongue?_

It didn’t last long.

‘Can we address the fucking elephant in the room before I spontaneously combust?’

Randy breathed out a sigh and looked up at him, an amused smirk playing the corner of his mouth.

‘You think you’re ready?’

‘Not in a million years.’

‘Come on.’ Randy motioned with his fingers, shaking his head.

‘What the fuck got into you?’ he backtracks. ‘No no no, I don’t wanna know. Just. I didn’t know you were gay?’

‘I’m not gay, fuck. But so what if I was?’ He watched Cody, revelling in seeing him squirm.

‘That’s exactly what Punk said. I don’t give a shit if you like guys, okay? I just can’t believe you didn’t tell me you liked _him_.’

‘You’re starting to sound like a sixteen year old.’

Cody shook his head. ‘I can’t work you out, man. What, one day you just woke up and suddenly decided you wanted to suck dick? I don’t get it. You’ve been wading knee-deep through women the whole time I’ve known you, never mentioned it before.’

‘His dick. Not just anyone. Get your head around that.’

Cody blinked blankly at him. ‘I am _trying_. Jesus, talking to you two is like trying to get blood out of a stone.’

‘Maybe you’re just overcomplicating things.’

‘Don’t give me that shit. You didn’t pick him because you like the way he fights, you picked him because you wanted to fuck him. That why you picked me, too?’

‘I’ll give you one chance to take that back.’

Cody shut his eyes and rubbed at them. ‘I’m sorry. I just. This is a bad idea, Randy. You know it. He’s going to get hurt. A lot. And you’re gonna tear yourself up about it every fucking time and I’ll have to come and pick up the pieces when he leaves. Like you know he will.’

‘He won’t. He told me he wont leave.’ Randy’s voice was suddenly small. He felt a little sick. Cody stared at him like he was watching a train wreck in slow motion.

‘What about when he figures everything out. Or hears it from someone else?’

Randy glared at him. ‘Don’t open your fucking mouth to him, Cody.’

Cody shrugged. ‘Sort your shit out, okay? Get it over with.’

Randy’s phone rang in his bag, breaking the moment.

‘Hello?’

‘Randy?’

‘Yeah?’

‘It’s me. Where are you?’

 

*

Punk gets out of the cab and pays his fare. Walks through the empty parking lot and leans against the wall next to Randy’s car, sheltering from the rain. He replays his conversation with Vince over and over and counts the money in the envelope. Minus the cab and phone, he’s got over £700, all in fifties. 

‘Hey.’

The voice makes Punk jump and he straightens, tucks the envelope back into his jacket pocket. A guy in a dark hoodie stands a few feet away, staring at him.

‘Can I help you?’ Punk pushes his voice out, squares his shoulders

‘Actually, I’m going to be helping you.’ European accent. German, maybe. He takes a step forward and Punk notices with a clench in his gut that he is carrying something long in his left hand. A hammer. He swings it, adjusts his grip on the handle.

Punk pushes off the wall and steps up, more than a little in the mood for confrontation. ‘You sure you wanna do this?’ Only thing Punk knows for sure is if this guy starts something, one of them will be leaving in a body bag. He’s not about to let it be him.

The door to Punk’s left bangs open and Randy comes through. He locks onto the hoodie guy and heads straight for him.

‘What the f—who’s this?’

Hoodie guy stops dead, staring at Randy with something like disbelief in his eyes.

Randy drops his bag, steps in between them and Punk sees him duck his head and go still for a second. He raises his finger at Hoodie and starts to walk towards him. Rain stains his t-shirt dark. Hoodie guy shuffles back, drops the hammer onto the wet concrete with a clatter. Holds his hands up, empty.

‘Hey, I know you - ’

Hoodie turns to run and Randy is on him, lunges and grabs the fabric and drags him over, smashes him into the side of his car with a vicious metallic thud. The guy falls to the ground, holding up his hands, feet scrambling, flicking up water as he tries to get away.

‘I fucking know you,’

Randy is rounding on him, staring down at him, a complete predator.

‘No, no you don’t, it must be someone else-’ Hoodie guy is _pleading,_ his face uncovered now, is deathly pale. Dirty blonde hair hanging in strings. He reminds Punk of  the asshole that tried to choke him.

‘Randy, what the fuck is going on here? You know this guy?’

‘Yeah. Yeah I do. I should’a known...’ He doesn’t take his eyes off Hoodie, who has scrambled backwards away from the car and is now following Randy’s every move with wide eyes.

Randy coils back and kicks him right in the face with the heel of his boot.

‘Fuck! Randy what-’

The guy rolls on the pavement, hands covering his nose, pleading and weeping beneath his wet fingers. Randy has gone. Punk is yelling over the rain and he’s just not hearing it. He squats down and grabs the front of the guy’s top and pulls him roughly to his feet. He stumbles and trips and Randy steadies him. A second later Randy delivers a fierce punch to the guy’s nose and Punk swears he hears it break from ten feet away. He lets out a wounded cry and trips backwards, falling back on his ass. He coughs and spits and chokes on the blood pouring over his face. Randy grabs the front of his top again and pulls his torso off the ground and lets him hang there, feet limp, whining and blowing red bubbles.

‘Randy that’s enough, let’s fucking go, come on. Leave him.’

Randy takes hold of the guys collar in one hand and punches him again, twice, three times, so brutally that Punk looks briefly away. When he looks back the guy’s stopped making noises and his face is dark with blood. It drips and flows and mixes with the rain, streaks of pink down his throat and in his hair. Punk jogs over pushes at Randy’s shoulders, ‘Come on, let him go – whoever he is-’ he tries to get in Randy’s line of vision, to snap him out of it, but Randy is staring down with a eyes like gunmetal, a feral, savage glare that makes Punk’s insides feel cold. Punk pushes at his shoulders again, its like pushing a brick wall. ‘You fuckin’ kill him, we’ll both be in a world of shit. Please Randy, _fuck_ -’ it’s like he’s not even there. Punk has lost him. He feels nausea wash over him in a wave.

‘You said it was your job to worry about me. Fuckin’ _listen_ -’ Punk moves in front of him and gets in his face, cups it in both of his hands. ‘Now is the time to worry. Please. I need you. I need you to look at me, come on. Let’s go.’

Randy blinks and looks into Punk’s eyes, glances over his face and its like Punk can physically _see_ him come back to earth. He softens and drops Hoodie guy to the ground with a wet thump. He blinks rain out of his eyes, wipes them and smears red across his face like war paint. It runs in rivers down to his jaw, drips off his lips. He straightens. Punk follows him and his hands slide to Randy’s neck and rest on his shoulders, steadying him. Randy takes a deep breath and stares around.

‘Fuck. I’m sorry.’

‘Can we go?’ Punk’s hands drop and find Randy’s, hanging limply at his sides. He touches the knuckles, hot and slick with blood. Slides and locks their fingers together.

‘Y-yeah. Yeah. Let’s go.’

‘You okay to drive?’

‘No. I don’t know.’

Punk lets Randy’s left hand free but clutches his right in a death-grip and they walk to the car. Punk gets into the drivers seat and hitches it forward. Randy gets in next to him and slams the door shut. Rain pelts heavily on the roof and thunder rolls overhead. Randy looks across at Punk still breathing hard. ‘I’m sorry. Didn’t mean for that to happen.’

_He’s not who you think he is._

‘Wanna tell me what all that was about? Who was that guy?’

Randy sighs. Stares out at the grey buildings and dark sky and then covers his face with a shaking hand.

‘Start the car. You gotta drive away or I’m gonna get out and kill him. I’ll tell you when we get back.’


	9. Crossroads

Randy can barely form words. Punk takes him up the hall and into his apartment with one hand planted firmly in the small of his back. Pushes him to the sink and washes the blood from his shaking hands, pats them dry and bandages his knuckles. He makes a huge mug of coffee and sits Randy down at the dining table by the window. Picks up the phone and calls an ambulance for the guy who might be choking on his own blood in the parking lot of the gym.

He slides a cup of coffee over and sits opposite Randy, watching his face.

‘Whenever you’re ready, you gotta fill me in on this. I’ll wait all day if I have to.’

Randy looks down at his cup. ‘I’m sorry. I should’ve told you before.’

‘Told me what?’ Punk reaches over and brushes the back of Randy’s hand with his fingertips.

‘When I said I owe Vince…that’s not all of it. It’s…a long story.’

‘I got all the time in the world. Start from the beginning.’

‘You sure? Might not like what I have to say.’

‘It doesn’t matter. Won’t change how I feel about you.’

Randy heaves out a deep breath. ‘I had a girlfriend. We were together from about age sixteen. Childhood sweethearts and all that bullshit. We were engaged once, but things got tough and we called it off. Broke up officially a few months later. We grew apart, started to want different things. She wanted kids, I didn’t think we were ready, blah blah. I loved her though, you know? We stayed good friends, she met someone else but used to come see my mom all the time, they were real close. One day I get a call from SLU hospital, saying I’m first on the list of people to call in an emergency. Turns out her new guy liked to drink and he smacked her around. This one episode was so bad she went into a coma.’

Punk swallows hard. ‘Wow. I’m sorry man.’

‘Yeah.’ Randy looks down at his hands. ‘I went to see her and she was so bust up, couldn’t even breathe on her own, I - I don’t even remember driving there but I went to her guy’s house and damn near beat him to death.’

He rubs at his eyes. ‘Used to have serious problems with anger, self control. Fighting let me get it all out, it was the only thing keeping me sane. Anyway, I left the guy’s house thinkin’ he was dead. I was panicking, you know, not seeing straight. First place I went after that was Vince’s. He cleaned me up and calmed me down and told me he was gonna take care of it. Next thing I know I’m on the plane to London.’

‘Just like that?’

‘Just like that. Couldn’t tell anyone where I was going. Not my family, not my friends, in case the cops found out. I’d go to jail for assault. Or attempted murder. So, I just upped and went.’

‘How could Vince make something like that just disappear?’

‘I was his golden boy. Been fighting for him for about four years by then. I was the son he never had.’ Randy smiles bitterly and picks at a thread on the bottom of his shirt. ‘He came with me. I was earning him a lotta money at that time, and that’s the only thing he really cared about. Covering his own ass. He used my winnings to pay off the family of the guy, and promised them I’d never come back. So the guy’s out of hospital, richer than he coulda ever wished on money I earned. Vince ended up giving them just under seven hundred thousand dollars.’

‘Goddamn.’

Randy stops picking his shirt and looks out of the window, brow furrowed a little against the light. Or maybe the memories.

‘I guess by then I’d been here maybe a year. Thought it was time to go home. Get back in contact with my family. Start a proper life somewhere new. Maybe in New York, or Miami.’

Punk smiles, imagines them together in the heat and spice of an August evening, the sun on their backs and the ocean at their feet. His smile fades. ‘So what happened?’

‘Guy like Vince, just attracts chaos. Thrives in it. Making money makes enemies and I’ll tell you, there was a lotta groups out there who hated him. Europeans especially, because he was on their turf. Way they saw it, he was a cockroach that needed exterminating. He was eating up all the money here. So, Vince set up a fight. A fight to end all fights. Winner would control most of the underground scene in London, if not all of it. That’s millions of pounds in betting money we’re talking. Tied up all the loose ends in the world. It was perfect. Elegant, really. In return for me taking out the competition, the Irish and English would drop their shit with Vince and offer him protection from the Europeans, Vince would walk away unharmed and I’d be a very rich man. My brother was getting married two nights on and I had a flight booked back home. My Mom said she was sick of losing me to the ring and that this was my last chance. Had my goddamn suitcase packed and everything.’ The sad smile is back and Randy is there, reliving it. Breathing it all over again just so that Punk can know him a little bit better.

‘Word got out that I’d be facing a German guy called Stav. Of course it was all meant to be a secret so I should’a known something was up when I start hearing rumours about it. Anyway. I get to the place and my head’s not in it. Too tied up with going home, seeing my brothers again. I got jumped in the parking lot.’

‘What? By who?’

Randy looks back at Punk, straight at him.

‘Guy from the gym.’

‘Shit no.’

‘He caught me off guard and knocked me down. I cracked my head on the ground and the next thing I remember is waking up in hospital, them telling me I’d been asleep for a week and that my shoulder was severely fractured. He’d knocked me out and then hit me with that fucking hammer until he knew I’d never fight again.’

‘Holy fucking shit.’

Punk isn’t sure if he’s even breathing anymore.

‘It was over in less than ten minutes. Everything fell through and we lost it all. So, I checked my phone to call home and there was a voicemail from my mom. She said I shouldn’t bother coming back if fighting was more important than family and that if I tried to contact them she’d call the cops. I broke my brother’s heart not being at his wedding.’ Randy sighs and looks down. ‘They moved house, changed numbers. That was just over a year ago. They’re all I’ve got.’ He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. ‘So now, I’m working back the money I owe Vince for not winning that fight. Let me tell you, he lost a lot of it. Damn near lost _everything_ he had. I’m crossing my name off the shitlist. Making sure the German guy gets his money. That’s why you’re here.’

‘Can’t you just leave? Sell your fuckin’ car and this apartment and get the next flight home?’

‘This is the kicker. None of its really mine.’

‘What? I thought you said-’

‘I bought it with Vince’s money. So really, everything is his. It’s all tied up in property so it doesn’t get chewed up into tax. He just lets me put my name on the lease.’

‘We could use my winnings to get you home. If you can’t fight anymore.’

‘It doesn’t work like that.’

‘Why the fuck not? We could-’

‘My family, my mom and dad, sister and brothers. He knows where they are. All of them.’

‘You’re shitting me.’

‘At first he said he was looking out for them, you know? A family friend? Making sure they’re all okay. But then it started to change and now it’s a whole different story. He’s using it to keep me here. I step out of line, even once with this, and I won’t ever find out where they are. Sometimes I get the feeling he could have them all killed if he wanted. He’s that kind of guy.’

‘There’s gotta be a way around this.’

‘I smashed up his office so bad when I found out he knew. Did a coupla thousand dollars of damage while he just sat there with this look on his face. Like I was just making it worse for myself.’

Punk feels sick. He runs a hand through his hair and massages the back of his neck. Shakes his head slowly and sighs. ‘You must miss your family.’

‘Worst part is they think I don’t care. They think I’d rather be here splitting my knuckles open on some asshole’s face than be with them. Its funny. But I’m almost used to it now. I got it in my head a long time ago that it was just me, myself and I. No one else seemed to stick around longer’n a few days once they got to know me properly.’

‘Something doesn’t make sense to me.’

‘A lot doesn’t make sense in this fucking shit storm.’

‘The guy that attacked you. I saw him. I just remembered. I saw him outside Vince’s office, I bumped into him on the sidewalk…he must’ve followed me. Sure as hell didn’t expect to see you...Why’d he come back for me?’

‘First day you got here, I told you Vince owed someone a lot of money. He’s from the same group as the guy I was meant to fight that night. It’s all connected. They’re trying to take over. They’re bleeding Vince dry, saying he still owes them. But Vince knows they wont touch him as long as he has guys like us to fight for him but until I find a guy good enough to beat them, nothing’s gonna change. So they’re trying to take you out.’

‘They wouldn’t just jump Vince in the parking lot? Get it done in one?’

‘Cutting the head off the beast doesn’t kill it, two more just grow in its place, you know? There would always be someone to take over. This isn’t about individuals. Its about respect. Legacy. Pride. Honesty amongst thieves, all that bullshit.’

‘When I first got here, you said Vince was a good guy. I don’t know about you but he is not what I’d describe as a good fuckin’ guy.’

‘He was, to start with. But you know, it went to his head. He got me outta trouble when I needed him. Just…went too far. I was gonna try and protect you if I could but things changed. With us. If you wanna bail, if you wanna just go, right now I won’t try to stop you. Hell, I’ll pay for your flight home.’

‘Are you insane?’

‘I don’t know.’

Punk looks at him in disbelief. After everything, after all the shit they’ve been through, Randy still thinks so little of himself that he’d let Punk walk out of his life without a second’s hesitation. He’d even give him a shove out the door.

‘I won’t pretend like this isn’t the most pressure I’ve ever felt in my fucking life, but you looked out for me, so I’m gonna try and do the same for you. I know that honour and decency matters to you, maybe more than it does to me, I don’t know, I’m kinda of a jerk. But I’m going to try my fucking hardest for you. I see us coming out of this alive. So no more talk about this bailing shit, alright?’

‘Alright.’

‘I’m sorry I made you drag it all back up. I didn’t mean for you to-’

‘Hey, its only right. Had to do it sometime.’

‘I wish you didn’t have to.’

‘Yeah. Me too.’ Randy leans back and stretches his shoulders. ‘Fuck I’m exhausted.’

‘C’mon. Let’s go back to bed.’

Randy softens and nods.

‘I’ll be right there.’

He gets up with a groan and heads to their bedroom. Punk finally lets himself breathe, stares out at the city without really seeing it. He exhales and blinks into the grey horizon, feeling dazed. Punk realises he is Randy’s only way out. In a funny way, they’ve come full circle; from Randy being the one to save him from his old life, to this. Under different circumstances, they could’ve taken everything slower, could’ve thought more about what they really wanted from each other.

But there are certain things you go through as strangers, that you cannot come out of as anything other than soul mates.

Punk doesn’t believe in destiny. He believes in first chances and impulsion. Instincts and opportunity, the twist in your gut when you just _know_ something’s right. He’d been feeling it all along, from the second he’d laid eyes on Randy, sitting in his changing room with his arms crossed and a sharpness in his eyes all the way through to having him naked between his thighs, moaning into his mouth.

No, Punk doesn’t believe in destiny. But he is starting to realise that getting on that plane was the best decision he’s ever made.

*

Randy stands numbly by the bed, looking down at his hands when Punk opens the door. The blinds are shut and its like all colour has been drained from the world. Punk goes to him, braces a hand on his shoulder and squeezes.

‘You’re gonna be okay.’

Randy looks at him. ‘Yeah. I know.’

Punk takes hold of his t-shirt by the hem, still wet from rain, and pulls it up over his head. Randy’s arms come down and he just stands there like he doesn’t know what to do with his body. Punk undoes the buckle on Randy’s belt and slides it slowly through the loops. Pushes his jeans down over his hips into a bunch on the floor. Randy steps out of them and drags a hand over his face, slow like he’s trying to wake himself up. Punk takes hold of his wrists and pulls them away, steps in close and pushes his open mouth gently to Randy’s.

Randy melts into him, warm skin against Punk’s shirt. He slides his fingers up to the back of Punk’s neck and into his hair, soft and slow. ‘Thank you.’ He murmurs, leaning his forehead against Punk’s, eyes closed.

Punk’s hand sweeps up his ribs. ‘Come on. Bed.’

Randy nods against him. 


	10. Biding Time

Punk had to physically distract himself so he wouldn’t leave the apartment and set Vince’s office on fire. Had to take an icy shower or lift weights until he could barely stand. One evening he remembers the photographs in Randy’s room with a jolt, him and his family so perfectly together, and he has to ask Cody to come and pull the stitches out of his head.

Rain slams against the windows, an angry winter squall that gusts and roars, back and forward like a panicked animal hurling itself against the glass. Punk thinks fleetingly this kitchen has seen more blood and guts than it was meant to but seems like the nearest thing to home he’s got. Cody has been quiet, not saying much. He’s humming along to the radio, snipping and pulling.

Randy won’t go near them; doesn’t trust himself with something so delicate. Cody jokes he’d pull a thread and Punk would fall apart on the floor like Frankenstein’s monster gone wrong and Randy laughs but looks like he might puke. Little black curls of thread collect in a tiny pile under the kitchen spotlights and he puts on a grimace and goes for a run in the rain. Seems like a developing habit. Punk wonders if he might drown out there.

He comes back forty minutes later, drenched like he’s been swimming. Cody and Punk are sprawled on the couch, Punk with a headache and Cody with a coke and a look on his face that says he wants to know the deal between them all. Randy takes one look at it, rolls his eyes and skirts around them to the shower. Cody clears his throat and Punk can feel that gaze burning into him three feet away.

‘Can you not do that?’

Cody narrows his eyes, slivers of evening sky-blue in the warm light of the room. ‘Randy’s being weird. What happened? He say something to you?’

Punk focuses a glare on him, speaks in a harsh whisper. ‘What happened is that I nearly got attacked by a guy with _hammer_ and Randy went into cold-blooded-murderer mode and beat him to a pulp in front of me.’

Cody’s face falls.

‘Woulda killed him if I wasn’t there. And because of what you told me, then I pushed him about it until he spilled. So yeah, maybe he’s a little weird right now.’

Cody glances to the hallway to check they’re still alone. ‘Hey man, don’t get in my face about it, I was just warning you.’

‘For all the good it did, Jesus. You knew about all this? About Vince?’

Cody looks at him a moment longer and his shoulders sag. ‘Yeah. I knew. It’s a shitty situation. I wish you didn’t have to get involved like this.’

‘You never thought to do anything about it?’

‘I’m not good enough, he knows it and so does everyone else.’

‘And what am I? A fuckin’ shot in the dark?’

‘You’re the best chance he’s got.’ He puts his coke down and pushes a hand through his hair. It sticks up, all angles. ‘Randy’d probably break my neck if I’d told you about Vince. But the look on your face when you talked about him, its… I don’t know.’ He shrugs with a sigh. ‘Someone needs to protect him from himself, you know?’

And Punk does. He does because he needs that too and he found it in Randy. Two pieces of a puzzle that fit so sweetly together. Independently co-dependant.

‘Yeah. Well now everything’s out in the open we can just get on with it.’ Punk leans back into the cushions and crosses his arms above his head, conversation over. Cody’s still looking at him, all boyish and full of energy. He makes Punk feel old and tired. 

‘You’re kidding, right?’

A door slams and their voices dip back to whispers.

‘I wanna get him home Cody. I’m serious.’

‘So do I. But if anyone finds out you know, I have no idea what Vince will do. But I’ll tell you this- he won’t fuckin’ like it. He’s not a good guy.’

‘Yeah. I got that first hand.’

‘Just shut up and do what he says, alright? You keep fighting like you have been and we’ll get through this no problem.’

‘We?’

Cody suddenly looks sheepish. A pink blush rushes to his cheeks and he looks away. ‘Yeah, yeah. I stayed…he - I mean I could’a left when you got here but…’

‘But you didn’t.’

Cody hunches one shoulder like it doesn’t matter and picks his drink up. Sits there smoothing his thumb over the glass. Punk thinks maybe that’s what he looks like when he thinks about Randy and hopes it isn’t true.

 *

‘We need to get out more.’

Punk’s eyebrows go up and he glances over at Randy as he lays flat on the weights bench, sweat running rivers down his chest.

‘Generally? Or…’

‘Tonight. We should go out. There’s a bar in Chelsea, you’ll – well, you won’t _hate_ it.’

‘Sounds like my idea of a fucking night- _mare-fuck-’_ Punk’s voice catches in this throat as he forces the bar up one more time and shoves it back in place. He lets out a huge breath and sits up, rolling his shoulders.

‘All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.’ Randy pumps his arms steadily, 30kg in each hand and a vein on his neck standing out like thick cable.

‘I like dull. Dull doesn’t try to kill me like everything else around here.’ Punk scrubs a towel over his face and down his neck.

‘You’ll be fighting again in a week. Might as well enjoy it, right?’

Punk is realising its damn near impossible to deny Randy anything when he stands there like that, all-worlds-strongest-man with a small smirk curving his mouth. Punk hasn’t touched him in too long, if he could he’d spend the rest of his life with his hands on all that skin – he’d die digging his fingers into those shoulders, sinking into ink while eyes the colour of storm clouds watched it happen.

*

‘Look man, I can do loud music. It’s my thing, okay? Just not…’ Punk waves his hand across the room packed with people, thudding repetitive music, ‘…This.’ He drains his third Pepsi just to have something to do with his hands and Randy swigs on a beer, gazing lazily at him over the bottle.

‘You really don’t know how to relax do you?’ He says, amused.

Punk looks around, feeling like a wolf in a henhouse. He’s used to violence, blood and teeth and knuckles. His guard is built up so high and so thick he doesn’t think it’ll ever come down and let him unwind like this. Not here. But maybe that’s the point.

‘This aint my kinda place, that’s all.’ He glances at a couple at the bar, a blonde woman with legs for miles and a dress designed to look better on a bedroom floor, expensive, dark silk. A black haired guy in an open shirt sits opposite, his hand on her thigh. Something prickles in Punk’s mind.

Randy hooks an arm around his shoulder and leans in close, mouth against the curve of his ear. ‘If it sucks that much we can just go. I won’t be offended.’ Punk shakes his head no and leans back into the cushioned bench. Randy is laughing against him, shadows jumping over his skin and eyes sparkling in the flashing lights, all pinks and blues and greens. ‘You look so uncomfortable it’s actually painful. Lets just call a cab?’

Punk looks at him, a smirk pulling at his face. ‘What happened to Jack being a dull boy?’

‘Fuck knows. Maybe they renamed him Punk.’

He shuts Randy up with his mouth, a quick hard kiss like he means it, pushing with his jaw. Randy smiles into it and pushes back. Punk pulls a face at the taste of beer and dramatically wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.

‘Alright I’m definitely takin’ you home.’ Randy pulls his phone out to call a cab and Punk looks back up at the crowds. The blonde at the bar is looking straight at them, mouth open in a little _oh_. Punk recognises her, knows her from somewhere but he can’t place it –

‘That woman’s gawping at us.’

Randy doesn’t hear, lit up in white light as he searches for a number. The blonde glances away at the man next to her, says something and turns back to the bar, dress open the length of her spine, all curves and skin.

*

Punk spends the taxi ride with Randy’s mouth on his neck and his hands under his shirt, clenching his teeth to stop him breathing too hard. Randy isn’t drunk, he barely had one beer – but he’s acting like he wants to haul Punk into his lap and fuck him right there in the backseat and it makes his insides ache.

He imagines them in Randy’s sports car, windows steamed, seat jacked all the way back, sweating into the leather, tattoos and breathless curses like a flash in his mind.

He bites down on his lip and breathes out hard through his nose, letting his eyes fall shut as Randy paws at his thighs and he thinks about all the times he’s been with women and how it just doesn’t _compare._

*

Inside the elevator Punk’s got Randy against the wall, shoving up against him, tongue sliding slowly against his lips. Down the hall and at the front door, all desperate gasps and sloppy smirks.

Randy gets his key in the lock on the fourth try and they push on through in the half-dark, just the street lamps meters below for light. ‘Are we gonna fuck in a bed like normal people this time?’ Punk walks backwards, talking against Randy’s mouth, hands raking down his chest.

‘You wanna?’

Punk backs into the couch. ‘No.’

He pulls at the bottom of Randy’s shirt and mutters ‘Off.’ Randy strips it over his head and flings it behind him, meeting Punk’s mouth with his, hot and wet and hard. Punk slides his belt undone and pushes his jeans down, let’s Randy grab rough handfuls of ass and hip as he does it and Punk opens his mouth slowly, silkily to Randy’s tongue. He pulls his shirt off and lets it fall at their feet, skin prickling in the cool air, lets Randy work his hands, just stands there and lets Randy maul him and revels in the way he won’t hold back, wont ever hesitate.

Randy grips the back of his neck and pulls him slowly down onto the couch, sucking his bottom lip gently, running his teeth lightly over it, biting, tugging, laughing against him, and Punk is dizzy and burning up with how hot he is, how it feels to have his hands on Randy’s bare skin – just plain addictive –

His knees sink down into the couch cushions, pressing down onto Randy, rutting against him, pulling low, desperate noises from his throat. He breathes and kisses at Randy’s neck, reaches between his own legs and slides Randy’s belt buckle undone, pops the button on his jeans and reaches into his boxers, all straining heat – Randy presses back into the couch with a groan, eyes black in the dusk, stomach twitching and tensing and Punk sits up to watch him. Could watch him forever, huge hands gripping at his thighs, serpent-like ink flexing and writhing over him, chest heaving like he’s forgotten how to breathe.

*

Stretched out on the wood floor with sweat cooling on his skin, Punk looks out at the city and waits for his thighs to stop shaking.

Randy dangles a leg off the couch, nudges him in the ribs with his foot. His voice is deep and soft, tired-sounding.

‘Everything alright?’

Punk turns onto his side, gazes up. ‘Yeah. I just…I remembered where I knew that woman at the bar from.’

Randy rolls his eyes, feigns hurt feelings. ‘Already thinking about other people, huh,’

‘Afraid so. She was staring at us like she knew us. I get it now.’

‘Yeah?’

‘She’s Vince’s secretary.’

Randy is still and silent a moment. ‘She saw us, like… _saw_ us?’

‘One hundred percent. Her jaw was practically on the ground.’

Randy nods, as if in acceptance. ‘Maybe she wont tell him.’

‘Maybe.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never thought I'd be writing fan fiction on christmas day, but here we are. Hope everyone's having a great time :) xxx


	11. Reckless

 

The phone was ringing. Punk could hear it over the warm hiss of the shower. He rubs his hands over his face and shuts the water off, steps out across the tiles and drips, naked, out down the hallway and into the lounge. Its ringing and ringing and ringing, not even going to answer machine, not letting Randy’s voice say _I’m out, leave me something good –_ just redial, redial, redial.

Punk stares at it, torn between unplugging it, smashing it to pieces or maybe even answering it. He picks the latter.

‘Yeah,’

‘Randy, I’ve been calling for-’

‘Randy’s out.’

Its Vince. Punk imagines his fat hand curled around the receiver like a ham all pink and useless, elbow up in the air, tiny eyes narrowing.

‘Oh. Right. Well, you’ll do.’

‘Great.’ Punk doesn’t trust himself with any more than that.

‘I’ve got a match lined up for you for tomorrow night. If you can keep your goddamn cool and let this one at least leave the ring conscious I can give you another eight hundred.’

‘I’ll do my best.’ He feels more words rise in his throat - _who’s fucking side are you on? -_ and swallows them down. Watches water drip from his body all over the wood floor and hopes Randy doesn’t come back in time to see it. Maybe being naked would sweeten the situation some. Vince has been talking and Punk hasn’t been listening.

‘-knows where to go. Tell him he’s got a cell for a fucking reason and I want him answering when I call.’

‘Sure.’

‘Alright. One more thing. Pay attention.’ His voice was low and hard, a warning.

‘Mhm.’

‘I’ve been hearing rumours. Rumours are damaging and they spread like wildfire. Especially if they turn out to be true.’

Punk feels his stomach twinge a little. Suddenly he wishes Randy would walk right in and take his mind off the chill that creeps down his back. Before he can speak the lines goes dead.

Punk puts the phone down and mops the water up, heads back into the bathroom, gets under the hot jets and prepares himself for another fight.

*

The sky is a bright clear blue, bleeding into orange and pink as the sun slides away behind the horizon. The air is still and fresh like it always is after rain and steam billows from heating ducts and exhausts and it reminds Punk of Chicago. He thinks of it suddenly, like missing the last step on a flight of stairs, a lurch in his gut that pulls all through his body. Miami was nothing to him really. Just the best of a bad situation. Just a stop along the way. Punk looks at Randy as he drives, all smooth actions, fluid muscle memory in the shift of his legs and the sweep of his hands, the grey smudge of a rose like smoke on his wrist - and he promises something to himself then, promises he will drive Randy through Chicago when this is all over, show him the sights, show him home.

By the time they pull up at the back of a warehouse by the docks its full dark and Punk can smell ice on the breeze. Out of the car with Randy’s hand on the small of his back, the tips of his fingers dipping below the waistband of his shorts and through a side door into a huge floodlit open space. Their breath steams in the air, drifting like smoke and Punk realises he hasn’t seen Randy with a cigarette in days.

They stand in the corner and wait for the crowd to gather. Punk pulls his jacket and t-shirt off and wraps his knuckles. Randy watches him, mouth curved in a smile.

‘You look good.’

‘Such a sweet talker.’

Randy laughs and crosses his arms over his chest. They bulge in his coat like he’s about to Hulk out and split the seams. ‘I’m serious, you look great.’ He looks Punk up and down in that way he has, tensing jaw and sharp eyes. ‘You’re gonna win this, easy.’

‘Yeah.’ Punk wraps his wrists in white tape and rolls them. ‘I could use _easy_.’

Randy slaps a hand down on his shoulder all calm and collected like nothing’s changed. ‘You’re the best fighter I’ve ever seen. Guy tried to kill you and you still came up swinging. If that’s not tough I don’t know what is.’

‘You keep saying that but its you has to watch me moping around your apartment all bust up.’

‘I can deal with moping. Don’t worry about me. Just go knock that guys teeth down his throat and lets go home.’

His hand slides up to Punk’s neck, smoothes a thumb over his jaw, the curve where it meets his ear and up behind, over his tattoo. 31.

Punk breathes deep and focuses. Goes to the ring slowly, weaving in between guys in the crowd. He has always made a point to get there before his opponent since the very beginning. Something in his caveman brain tells him its about claiming territory. _I was here first. This is mine. Just try and take it from me, asshole._

Strip lights stain everything ugly grey white, no shadow or room for theatrics. Punk bounces lightly on the ropes, flexes his arms and shoulders and waits. Guys start to pack in, feeding the biggest crowd he’s fought in front of. There’s even a guy that looks like he might be a ref. Someone is taking photos of him on their phone, the flash popping long and bright to his left. The atmosphere is different. Light, positive. Punk breathes it in, the sound of voices, distant music. The smell of the city and cigarette smoke and beer.

A guy who’d been standing ringside swings up on the rope and steps through to a rising cheer. Tall, olive skinned and dark hair shot with grey, older this time, maybe thirty five, forty. Punk was sick of beating on kids anyway. He pulls his shirt off and throws it to a woman in the crowd. Blows her a kiss and turns to Punk, eyes so dark they’re almost black, and offers his hand.

‘Good luck mate.’ Punk shakes it, a firm honest grip.

‘Yeah, and you.’ The guy eyes his tattoos with a smile and steps back, starts bouncing from foot to foot. Somewhere someone turns the music up and suddenly Punk feels like he’s home. The ref guy blows a whistle and they go at each other, heads down, pushing and pulling like bulls with their horns locked, Punk with his teeth gritted, fingers digging into the muscle where the guy’s shoulders meet his neck.

He kicks out and hooks his foot around the guy’s knee and pulls and he smacks down onto the mat, flat on his back. He rolls and gets back up, lightning fast. Punk follows him in a tight circle, his back to the ropes, foot over foot, hands raised. The guy lashes out with a fist and Punk deflects it with his forearm, kicks quick and hard at his hip and the guy buckles a little to one side, straightens up and rounds on him, fakes high and lands a punch to Punk’s sternum that knocks the air straight out of his lungs and follows it with a vicious jab that splits Punk’s lip with a brutal stinging smack. He staggers back, coughing and gasping, breath coming quick and shallow, falling against the ropes and ducking under a right hook that would’ve knocked his head clean off his shoulders.

Men all around him are shouting and laughing, yelling encouragement and insults and as Punk gets his breath back and sweat starts to slick his skin, he feels a smile spread across his face. He spits blood onto the mat and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. Remembers the reasons he started doing this all those years ago. For the crowds, for the energy and the adrenaline. For the distraction. Because it felt like _living_.

He sees Randy at ringside, right at the front with this little frown creasing his forehead. He gives thumbs-up, _you okay?_ Punk nods and leans back to dodge another swinging punch, ducks low and throws his fist into the guy’s gut, brings his knee up to catch him doubling over and cracks him on the chin. The guy falls back and down in a crumpled heap and rolls onto his back, sluggish, dazed, faraway look in his eyes.

Punk lets him come back, gives himself time to breathe. The ref is calling for the guy to answer his count and he does, at the last second. He gets shakily to his feet, massaging his jaw, staggering, unstable. Punk ducks under three more wild swings and skips sideways of a nasty kick. The crowd yells, anticipation, bloodlust, a huge roaring, hungry beast all around them.

Roaring for him to finish it.

A sore jaw is one hell of a weak spot. One well placed punch on the side of the chin will knock the toughest guy out and leave him twitching and drooling on the mat. The brain collides with the inside of the skull and the nerves controlling motor functions running along the back of the jaw and neck get crushed. Lights out and goodnight.

The guy rushes him, messy and dizzy, not present. Punk coils back and meets him halfway with a huge high kick, all the power and energy in his leg, foot to jaw and his head snaps back, his body keeps on going until it lands, heavy like dead meat, slapping down onto the mat.

The whistle goes and Punk brings his arms up, a laugh, spinning slowly on the spot, drinking it all in, wiping blood on his own shoulder, breathing hard and deep, the sound of the crowd like thunder in his ears.

Randy is grinning, looking up at Punk, sweat running down his back and blood on his mouth.

Punk goes to the ropes, people reaching through to touch him, slapping him on the shoulders like he’s a lucky charm. He climbs down next to Randy and pulls him into a hug, revelling in winning a fight that hasn’t ended with him nearly losing his life. _This is how its meant to be._

They thread through the people away from the ring and Randy hands Punk his shirt as Punk pulls the tape from his hands.

‘That was a work of art.’

‘I feel great. That was fun, man.’ Punk’s face is aching with the smile still plastered over it, lip stinging, spilling bitter iron into his mouth. He pulls on his shirt, feeling the fabric stick to his damp skin. He scrubs a hand through his hair, rubs his face, shivering in the icy air as they step outside. Across the dark parking lot and into the warm darkness of Randy’s car and Punk still hasn’t come down, he’s high, keyed up, mind on triple time. Randy slides in next to him, smooth as water, all dark fabric and long strong limbs, jeans hugging his thighs, shoulders straining in his jacket and Punk lets out a groan.

‘Fuck it.’

He flings the car door open and gets out, Randy ducking his head, mouth quirked – ‘What the – Punk, get in!’

Punk kicks his shoes off, drags his shorts down over his ass and pulls his shirt off again, gathers it all in his arms and dumps it on the passenger seat. Climbs back in, hands and knees, hunched under the low roof of the car, and slams the door shut.

‘What the fuck are you-’

‘-Shut up.’ Punk crawls over the center column and scrambles into Randy’s lap, perched over his thighs and kisses him on the mouth, fingers running up the back of his neck, up the inside of his jacket, popping the buttons, knees pressed into the leather.

‘You’re insane, I – oh _fuck_ -’ Punk grinds down and forwards against him, denim warm and rough on his bare skin. He feels below the seat for the lever and pulls, Randy sinks down and back beneath him and he moves further up, sliding his tongue over Randy’s mouth, pushing up against the tight hard heat in his jeans. Randy’s fingers are biting marks into his back, one thumb on his hipbone, guiding him back and forward and up and down slow and steady and he’s pushing back, foot flat down on the accelerator, arching against the seat. Punk’s ripping his jeans open and tugging at his jacket, breathing against his mouth, gasping and moaning low in his throat, impatient.

Randy groans and sits up, Punk bruising a line down his jaw with his teeth, mouthing his neck and Randy struggles out of his jacket, panting and groaning in frustration. He flings it into the passenger seat, cursing.

‘This fucking _car_ , _fuck_.’

He strips his shirt off and whips it into the footwell like its on fire. Wraps his arms around Punk’s waist and pulls him in tight, ducking his head and biting, kissing his collar bone, licking the sweat at the hollow of his throat.

‘Get up, lift your ass up,’ Punk orders, blood pounding in his ears. He kneels up and Randy presses his hips high as he can and Punk yanks his jeans and boxers down, pushes them to his knees and settles back down over thighs firm as marble, Randy breathing out hard and clutching him in close again, crushing their mouths together, tongue pushing slowly into his mouth, soft and wet.

‘C’mon, fuck. C’mon.’

Randy sucks his fingers into his mouth, slicks them with spit and pushes his hand down between Punk’s thighs, a snaking inked arm, and Punk sits down on them, eyes sliding shut, mouth falling open with a rough moan. He rocks back and forward, teeth sinking into his bottom lip forgetting all about the split. Randy is watching him, pupils huge and black, lips parted. He twists his wrist in small slow circles and Punk’s breath catches in his chest, all hung up and hitched around a hard groan. He sucks his lip and tastes blood, flicks his eyes open to see Randy sloppily lick up the length of his palm and start to stroke himself, wet, rushed sounds.

‘Tell me when you’re ready.’

‘Now. Right fucking now.’ The noise Punk makes when Randy pulls his fingers away makes his face feel hot; pained, desperate, filthy. When Randy pushes up into him Punk’s thighs close around him like a steel trap, crushing up against hips and waist, every fibre in his body rock hard, screaming with tension. He hears himself humming and whining, low and needy, rocking his hips in tiny jerking motions as the burn starts to fade. His hands are kneading the seat behind Randy’s head and the meat of his shoulder, opening and closing, clench and release.

‘Are you-’

‘I wouldn’t have your dick in my ass if I wasn’t so just shut the fuck up and _give_ it to me.’

Randy curses under his breath and grips under Punk’s thighs and starts to fuck up into him, slow and steady and Punk’s head drops down and he falls forward, can’t even breathe, just curses and moans and tries not to come undone right there and then. One hand loose on Randy’s throat, the other pushing against his ribs to hold himself up – his face is buried in the seat, mouth pushed up against leather breathing and burning into it, Randy’s gasps in his ear and hands on his skin.

Randy’s rolling his hips and pressing up and Punk is just taking it, pushing back, feeling sparks fly up his spine, pressure rolling and crashing through his gut. He heaves himself up and kisses Randy, hard and a little painful, all teeth and bleeding lips.

‘Why the fuck did you choose here and now, car’s so small I can’t fuck properly-’ Randy talks against his mouth, rushed and mumbled, rutting up and pulling Punk down onto him, rolling, rhythmic.

‘It’s _your_ piece of shit car, what ya gonna do, bend me over the hood?’ Punk gasps, steadying himself with a palm flat against the misted window.

‘Didn’t hear you complaining first time you saw it.’

‘I didn’t think you’d be fucking me in it - _god_ -’ Randy hitches his hips up and moves faster and Punk’s voice dips to a strained moan. Randy gets a hand on him and starts stroking, quick and tight, turning his wrist and making Punk breathe his name and dig his fingers into anything he can find.

He kneels up higher, gives Randy more room and Randy is breathing hard and fast, one knee jammed into the door the other against the centre column, quietly murmuring _fuck, fuck, fuck_ , rocking the car, slamming his hips up, free hand like iron on Punk’s waist hard enough to bruise.

Before Punk can get a breath his back is arching and he’s coming hard and hot in Randy’s hand, pressure quaking through his whole body, riding in Randy’s lap, low moan tearing out of his mouth. His body goes slack, face buried in Randy’s shoulder, moaning and murmuring about _god_ like he’s been converted.

And Randy holds him up, hands on his thighs, arms straining and tensing and he’s slamming up so hard Punk feels it all through his spine, thrumming at the base of his skull, sweet and nearly painful, swaying and pitching with the rough movement, teeth digging in and biting marks into grey skulls, promising himself next time he’ll try and last more than ten minutes before losing it. He sits up, leans back, forearm and hand against the cold window and spreads his knees open wider, angles his hips down and stares at Randy as he starts to lose his mind.

Randy’s grip tightens and he fucks upward in a quick sloppy frenzy, stomach tensing rock hard, knee banging against the car door, eyes locked on Punk, wild and desperate and predatory. Punk feels Randy’s entire body twitch and tense like a wave gone through him and he digs furrows into Punk’s skin as he comes, jerking and panting, head pressed back into the seat. Punk falls forward onto him, feels the little tremors shooting through Randy’s muscles and kisses at his neck, lets his breath come back and waits for Randy to relax his grip.

Feels Randy’s mouth on his shoulder, the scratch of stubble and a sigh.

‘I think maybe I will bend you over the hood next time. Long as you don’t scratch the paintwork.’

Punk sits up and shifts over with a groan. ‘Deal.’

He falls back into the passenger seat, all sweat, weak legs and numb feet. He kicks his clothes onto the floor and sinks down in a stretch.

Randy pulls his jeans up and reaches down for his shirt, setting the seat upright again. ‘Love makin’ a mess in my car huh.’

‘Whatever gets me off.’

Randy looks at him with a smirk, eyes up and down his naked body stretched out on the leather, tanned and shining with sweat, skin singing with colour amongst all that black and metal. He leans over and kisses Punk, gentle and deep, thumb along the line of his jaw.

‘You stink like sex.’

‘Yeah. So do you.’

‘I like it.’

‘Mhm.’

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Of Mice and Men for getting me through this pain in the ass chapter.


	12. Lion's Den Part 1

The drive home was quiet, slow. Punk pulls his clothes back on and falls asleep twice before Randy parks up and nudges him gently on the arm.

The apartment is warm and full of dim light and Punk just desperately wants to sleep. Feels like he could get a rare ten hours of glorious unconsciousness. Instead he drags himself into the shower and lets his head drop to his chest as the water pours down his body. He shuts his eyes and runs hands over his thighs and shoulders and neck, cramped from fucking in Randy’s car. Six foot four of Adonis-smooth muscle and a crooked smirk blooms in his head and his fingers curl into his skin and tighten and his mouth tilts in a smile.

Women he’d been with liked to say they were attracted to his ingrained animosity. Used to say they’d got themselves a bad boy and brag to their friends about how he’d come home with cut knuckles and fire in his eyes and fuck them up against the wall like he was possessed. But it wasn’t something they wanted any way past that. Couldn’t deal with everything that came with it; his foul mouth and quick flourishing anger, mood swings and money problems, the back alley deals and real, firsthand danger that was more than some gimmick like the movies. They wouldn’t approve of his fixation with fighting when it didn’t suit them. They’d bare their teeth and throw things and scream, belittle something that made him feel like he was the king of the fucking world, even just for a few short minutes, and were never willing to understand. He’d always dated the wrong women. Maybe he just liked the way some of them would look at him, eyeing up his tattoos and biting their lips as he swept sweat off his forehead like they’d never seen anything so _perfect_ – all the glamour and none of the reality. Maybe that’s what lost him his friends, his family. Reality. Blind drive that never let up, never left enough room in his head for anything other than the fight. And now the crushing weight of all of it was lifted and he felt light, like he was floating, like all that shit had happened to a whole different person -

The old voices in his head screaming that he was an obsessed, worthless asshole incapable of real affection had just vanished, utterly silenced by the sounds Randy would make in his sleep or the deep moans from the back of his throat or the way he’d sigh when he stretched in the mornings, eyes scrunched closed, back arching, legs kicking out the whole length of the bed.

Punk has always struggled to accept help. He is mean and sometimes too headstrong for his own good, too proud, but he knows a good thing when he feels it and maybe this time he’s willing to let himself and his train wreck of a life be saved by someone else. And maybe soon he’ll stop pretending he isn’t heart-wrenchingly, blindly, willing to kill for in _love_.

The door clicks open and he shifts like he’s woken from a dream. Blinks water out of his eyes and rubs at his face. He wipes steam off the glass in a thin swipe and sees Randy stripping off his jeans, hears the jingle of his belt buckle over the water and as it hits the floor. Thirty seconds later there’s wet skin and their toes are touching and Punk’s got his head on Randy’s chest and his hands on his waist and he lets the water run and run.

Randy asks if he’s hurting, voice deep and Punk feels it rumble against his mouth and says no, just his legs and Randy kisses the top of his head and sinks down to his knees, hands sweeping down the curves of Punk’s thighs and blows him, long and slow and Punk is scratching gently at his shoulders as if the ink will curl under his nails and his head hits back against the glass and he twitches and moans and closes his eyes. Randy’s hands squeeze bruises into his hips and ass, kneading and clenching and he’s making soft wet noises, breathing hard through his nose, knees spread wide on the tiles, water beating down on his back.

Punk comes in Randy’s mouth, body trembling and jerking, breathing his name and barely holding himself up. Randy kisses the insides of his thighs, holds him in strong hands as he slips down the glass, panting and murmuring.

Punk leans back and brings his knees up and sits, waits for his head to stop spinning. Randy gets his face under the water and rubs at it and sinks back against the glass, looking at Punk with a gaze that could burn him. Punk decides as soon as he can get up he’ll repay the favour.

*

They sleep late. A weak sun tracks across a grey-white sky and by the time Punk is dressed its hidden behind clouds heavy with rain. He takes his envelope of money and tucks it in his jacket, heads for the door and lets Randy sleep.

Downstairs and out into the cold air he hails a cab and asks to be taken the best place people go when they need new clothes. He gets the feeling the driver’s rinsing him for all he’s worth but he doesn’t mind. He sees the city, watches out of the window as a light rain starts to fall, drifting in the breeze. He pays his fare and gets out at Oxford Street, plugs his ipod in and spends two hours wandering stores and dodging people on the sidewalk.

Usually places like this would have him anxious and irritated within the first then minutes, but he takes it slow, lets the world rush past him and loses himself in his music and his head. Stares blankly at racks of clothes and wonders what the hell he’s done to deserve a break like this. Imagines Randy curled naked in bed and revels in it all being real. Not some half-baked fantasy that never sees the light of day. Genuine. A body and mind that wants him, understands him, lets him just _be_.

Dusk is starting to crawl across the sky by the time he’s on the way home, weighed down with bags. Rain wets his hair and shoulders, a fine mist, the type that always seems to get you wetter than a proper downpour.

Fumbling for keys all the way up the hall, he doesn’t see it until he gets right up to the front door. Its half open and the lock is hanging off, dented and broken. His heart jumps to his throat and he falters like the earth has shifted suddenly under his feet. He drops the bags on the floor and pushes his way in, feeling like time has slowed, wading through the air like it’s water. The entire place has been trashed. The TV is hanging lopsided on the wall, huge holes in the screen. The dining table is on its side, chairs scattered and splintered. Punk walks numbly past the kitchen, stepping on broken glass, crunching like gravel underfoot. His mouth is dry. Can’t even call out to Randy to see where he is - but then, then he sees he doesn’t have to. He stops like he’s been struck in the chest with a sledgehammer.

Just half of Randy’s arm is in view. The rest hidden behind the couch. His fingers are limp and still and wet with blood.

Punk swallows. He can’t move, can’t make himself walk over and look. Just stares without breathing as seconds tick by, body like lead. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry!


	13. Lion's Den Part 2

Punk feels like his heart has stopped beating. Just given up, hanging in his chest like a weight.

He would rather stand there in all that broken glass and crushed wood forever than have to look into eyes the colour of an ocean storm and find them lifeless. Five more seconds he just stares into the ruined room, not breathing, and it feels like an eternity.

Then, shining and scarlet, Randy’s fingers twitch.

Punk lurches forward like he’s been pushed, almost trips on a lamp, skids on the scattered shards of it and skirts around the edge of the couch, bashes his shins on the coffee table and falls down at Randy’s side. He breathes Randy’s name, a broken sounding whisper, eyes flicking over his body, searching for signs of life.

He is sprawled on the wood floor, one arm up above his head, the other stretched to the side like he was reaching for something. His face is just a mess of red. A cut on his forehead seeps blood steadily, fresh and bright. It stains his grey shirt black, splattered sickly down his chest and neck like he’d been bathing in it. Punk can smell it, like iron and raw meat. He cups Randy’s face in his hands, slaps gently at his cheek and feels the warm wetness of it slick his palms.

‘Wake up, please, please, come on you asshole.’ Randy’s head rolls like his neck’s made of rubber and Punk thinks for a second that he really, truly might be dead. But it doesn’t seem real. It can’t be.

‘Don’t leave me now, fuck, come on… please. Don’t you fucking dare-’

He tilts Randy’s head up, hands under his jaw and bends to listen for breath. For a few seconds there’s nothing but the thud of his own heart, then a thin rasping sound and a wave of relief crashes over him so hard he nearly sobs.

He taps at Randy’s face again, pushes his shoulder gently, hands shaking and wet and fumbling and suddenly he just doesn’t know what the fuck he is supposed to do. He’s asking for help, muttering, trying to breathe, trying to get himself back on track, trying to remember all the training he had when he was just starting out – _what to do when you knock someone out cold – what – what the fuck are you meant to do –_

He pulls his phone from his jacket pocket and stares blankly at the screen, plucks 999 from the depths of his mind and hammers the numbers in, fingers slipping on the screen.

‘Hello, emergency service operator, which service do you require?’

‘I – I uh, ambulance, I need an ambulance,’

‘Okay, where are you calling from?’

Punk’s insides go cold, he swallows, rubs a hand over his mouth. Exactly how much trouble was Randy in when Vince brought him here? Was he even here legally? Would the police get involved when they saw the apartment? Would they find out about his past? The matches? The whole damn setup?

‘– I need – my friend’s hurt, he’s unconscious. I don’t know what to do-’ Punk feels panic start to close in, gripping at him, crawling up his throat.

‘I need to know where you are, can you describe it? Do you know the address?’

Punk bites down on his lip and stares at Randy laying there soaking in his own blood.

‘Can you just… tell me what to do?’

‘Sir, I need to know where you are, I can’t send anyone unless-’

Punk exhales hard ‘-ah _fuck_ -’ and throws his phone down.

He scrambles up and vaults the couch, slides across glass and broken plates to the sink and wrenches the cold tap on, drenches a kitchen cloth and jogs back, presses it gently to Randy’s forehead. Lets the water drip and run over his face, swollen and hot and bruising before his eyes.

He turns it to the cold side, wipes the blood out of his eyes and away from his mouth, reveals a thick cut on his top lip.

‘Come on, come on. You can do this.’ Punk murmurs under his breath, cupping Randy’s face in his hand and checking for breath again. He feels it brush his ear softly, a deeper sound now. ‘Fuck, come on…please.’

Randy’s eyelids flutter and his mouth opens and closes, as if he were dreaming. Punk shifts around, glass digging into his knees and grips his arm.

‘Randy – wake up, hey hey wake the fuck up,’

His body moves, fingers curl and twitch and then suddenly his eyes are open and Punk thinks they’re the most perfect eyes he’s ever seen, bright and shining and a little dazed. Randy stares around and tries to sit up, grimaces and flops back onto the wood.

Punk is breathing like he’s been underwater for hours, shushing and pressing the cloth back onto Randy’s forehead, telling him to lay still and just wait it out. Randy clutches at his shoulder, swallowing and blinking and wincing when he tries to move.

‘Fuck I thought you were dead.’ Punk’s voice is shaking. ‘I thought you were fucking dead.’ He leans back against the coffee table and just looks at Randy, lets his mind and heartbeat calm and tries not to vomit. 

Randy coughs thickly and spits blood onto the floor. ‘I’m okay.’ He pushes himself up with a groan, shoulders propped against the couch.

Punk looks out of the window and blinks wetness from his eyes, rakes his hands through his hair. ‘I thought that was it. I really thought it was all over. I’ve never been so scared in my life.’

‘I’m okay, I’m fine. Gave as good as I got...’ Randy is looking at his knuckles, turning his hands over in the air, watching them tremble. He’s trying to reassure Punk, trying to gloss over it all but he’s sitting there drenched red with a split in his face and someone else’s blood running down his wrists. ‘How’d I look?’

‘You look like you got the shit kicked out of you. What the fuck _happened_?’

‘I don’t know. These guys, they just burst in and started trashing the whole place. I was in the other room, I don’t think they knew I was here.’

‘But they found out.’

Randy forces a smile, a half-smirk that Punk has _leant_ the curve of, could leave it a hundred years and he’d still remember that smile, even when he’d forgotten his own face. Randy touches the cut on his forehead. ‘Couldn’t let them wreck all my stuff, right?’ Always the tough guy. It makes Punk’s heart hurt.

‘How many were there?’

‘Six.’

‘You thought it’d be smart to take on six guys? What are you insane?’

‘Look I’m sorry, I didn’t know they had bats, I just-’

‘-Jesus fucking christ. They had _bats_? I come back here and see you laying there thinkin’ you were dead - I nearly lost my fucking mind.’

‘Hey, I’m sorry.’ He shifts up higher, wipes fresh blood from his lip with his thumb and wipes it on his jeans. ‘I’m okay, I promise…and thanks.’

‘For what? For not being here?’

Randy shrugs. ‘For having my back.’

‘You know if I had a bat right now, I’d hit you too. Don’t _ever_ do that shit again. Next time six guys are in your apartment you call me, you don’t go after them okay? Fuck…’

They sit in silence for a moment and Punk tries to cool the anger threatening to  burst out of his chest. ‘Who was it? Who sent them?’

Randy shakes his head slow, looks down. ‘Vince, I think. They know about us.’

‘That fucking son of a _bitch_.’ And just like that its all spewing out, white hot fury, and Punk wants to wrap his hands around someone’s throat and fucking squeeze-

He looks at Randy, feeling like hate is visibly radiating from him in waves. ‘I’ll get you out of this place, I swear.’

‘I’ve been promised that before. Don’t say it unless you mean it.’ Randy gazes at him, a grim look on his face, intense and honest and not fucking joking anymore. Punk wasn’t there to give his protection like he promised he would. He let it happen, and with a sick jolt he knows Randy goes through this every time Punk gets in the ring. He doesn’t know when he got so protective. When he started caring about Randy more than himself but he’s sure of it now, with a kind of clarity that hits him hard, shakes him, he’s sure that he’ll never survive unless Randy is right there with him.

‘Until my last fucking breath, I _mean_ it.’

*

Punk helps Randy into bed and dabs the wound on his forehead with a towel until the worst of the bleeding stops. He tilts a glass of water to his mouth, draws the blinds and kisses him on the temple, the only place that isn’t bruised and broken. He shuts off the lights and leaves him to sleep. Goes into the lounge and starts to clear up the debris, takes the TV off the wall and sweeps up the glass, tries to make the place look a little presentable. Three hours later with sweat running down his back and splinters in his hands, he gets into the shower and sits numbly on the tiles, biting his tongue and clenching his jaw and staring into nothing with rage bubbling and boiling under his skin.

 

 


	14. Second Guesses and Third Chances

_Baby I’m thinking it over,_

_What if the way we started made it something cursed from the start?_

_What if it only gets colder?_

_Would you still wrap me up and tell me that you think this was smart?_

_Cause lately I’ve been scared of even thinking ’bout where we are._

 

 

 

Punk’s throwing smashed dishes into a box when Randy ambles into the hallway, all stiff and slow from sleep, one hand on the doorframe.

‘Still mad at me?’

Punk can’t look at him, not yet. Isn’t ready for it.

‘I’m not mad at you.’ He stacks three cracked plates and drops them on top of the others with a crash.

‘Those dishes ever do anything to you?’ He can hear the small smile in Randy’s voice, can almost see the crinkle at the corner of his eyes.

‘You should get a maid.’

‘Why, when I’ve got you.’

Punk’s body betrays him and he looks up, feels his chest twinge.

The cut on Randy’s forehead, crescent-shaped and red. The split in his lip, the purple-grey of bruising swelling under his left eye. It makes Punk swallow hard and grind his teeth. Seems like this place did something to them; shook them up and slammed them around just to see how much of it they could take. Randy manages a real smile, small but genuine. Shakes his head.

‘Don’t keep lookin at me like that. ‘S probably an improvement.’

‘Yeah well I liked you before.’

Randy’s hand slips off the doorframe and he walks to Punk, stepping over boxes and bags of broken china and glass.

‘Assholes really made a mess, huh.’

‘Mhm.’

He moves in close, pulls the last shards out of Punk’s grip and chucks them down. Takes Punk’s hands in his and links their fingers together, split knuckles and puffy joints.

‘It’s just stuff. Don’t worry about it.’

‘Its _your_ stuff.’ He glances up, looks into Randy’s face. Sees that calm, steady gaze, feels the heavy warmth of his body. ‘Why’d Vince do this? He really hate the idea of us fucking that much?’ Something in Randy’s eyes, a flash, a gaze held silent too long.

‘Maybe he didn’t like the decor.’ Randy pulls away and leaves cold air in his place. Turns to look out the windows, leaning against the counter.

Punk had always said the wrong things, long as he could remember. ‘I didn’t mean…we’re. More. More than just fucking.’

Randy gives him a look, not cold but nothing that he could call fond. Like he was waiting for Punk to undo the knot in his throat and get his words out properly.

‘Aren’t we?’

‘You tell me.’

Punk stands there and searches around in his head for something to make it better and all he gets is _–jerk. You’re an absolute jerk-_ and the moment stretches out, turns into Punk having it all in his head but none of it making enough sense to be spoken out loud, and just staring across the room like he’s waiting for Randy to do it for him. But he doesn’t. Just keeps those eyes on him, rooting him to the ground and making him feel like he’s shrinking. Really Punk doesn’t know what they are. He’d do pretty much anything for Randy in a heartbeat and he’s barely known him two months. Does that kind of relationship even have a name?

Randy takes a breath and it cuts the air like a knife. ‘I’m gonna go out. I need to stop by the gym and see the guys.’ He straightens and is already turning to go. Punk’s words are trapped in his chest, dying into nothing at all.

‘I’ll see you later.’

*

The apartment was so clean Punk was pretty sure he could eat off the floors. His shoulders and back were sore and tight and he’d been going over his conversation with Randy for nearly an hour, trying to work it all out in his head.

Punk’s biggest enemy was himself. People had said that to him and he’d laughed at the cliché like it was nothing. Just something they used to say. But guys twice as big and twice as mean would beat him regularly and still do less damage than the voice in his head; sometimes he’d go to bars and pick on the nastiest asshole there just to get some silence from it.

It wasn’t over-thinking. It was self-defence.

He had a way of getting into bad situations. This didn’t feel like that yet, but Punk was starting to second guess himself and that was something he just couldn’t fucking cope with. Distance was what he needed. Perspective. Thoughts started slipping into his mind like ships through fog, thoughts like maybe what they had wasn’t healthy. Maybe it was rotten from the outset.

Maybe Punk got sucked in because someone finally gave a fuck about him.

Maybe that feeling, bleeding outside the gym that night, that sudden rush of desire was a knee-jerk reaction to nearly dying. Just a survival tactic. But looking into Randy’s face while they were fucking or catching a smile against his mouth was nothing like that. It was just the type of people they were, putting _everything_ into actions and stumbling uselessly over words.

Punk had never wanted a guy to push him down and fuck him before and the fact that someone wanted a better life for him was probably not enough to make him get on his knees and open his mouth. But who knew? He was learning new things about himself every day. And that’s what it came down to. It was the sex that changed it all. Threw the dynamic so far off it was in a whole other universe. They say all the best deals are sealed by a kiss. Maybe that was the moment he started falling headlong in love, no way out, no way back. The realisation that he could really have it all if he wanted; mind body and soul, and god he did want it - so badly it was like a headache – but he didn’t know this part of himself. Talk to any guy that’s getting laid like never before and he’ll say he’s in love.

_But doubt will destroy you, if you let it._

The real test would be whether he could walk out on Randy and not come back.

And he knew he’d never be able to do it on his own. Not in a million years. If Randy said the word he’d go, drop everything and abandon ship if he asked. His heart would split in his chest but he’d do it. Maybe that made him weak. Or maybe it made him the strongest he’s ever been.

He showers, takes the rest of the trash down and on a whim, gets in a cab. He walks around in the city for a little while with no real purpose, just to clear his crowded head. He watches people, takes in the sights. Tries to hope that the grim feeling in his gut will have gone by the time he sees Randy again. He stops by a department store on the way home and buys a new TV for the apartment, wondering why he feels so goddamn guilty. He hauls it out of the cab’s trunk and up in the elevator. Struggles down the hall with it in his arms like he’s in some kind of dumb mating ritual from a nature documentary.

_Hey I bought you this shiny thing, am I good enough yet?_

The lounge is dark and empty and he sets the box awkwardly down by the couch. He’s starting to think he fucked up more than he first realised when he sees light spilling under the door to Randy’s room.

‘Hey, you in there?’

He knocks on it gently, listening to the silence.

‘Randy?’

He’s reaching for the handle when something stops him. For a second, he’s scared what he’ll find. It comes out of nowhere, strikes him in the chest like a swift punch. Two pairs of blue eyes, dark hair, tanned, clear skin against tattoos, and a soft, young laugh, all in his head. A frown pulls at his face and he starts to move away.

‘Hey, is that you?’

Punk fights the lump in his throat and pushes in, finds the room empty. The sheets are all bunched on the bed and he walks right past it, maybe just imagining the smell of someone else there. The door to Randy’s bathroom is open a little and he walks towards it. He feels sick, like he’s swallowed something alive and its squirming in his stomach.

Randy’s laid out in the tub like some kind of Roman gladiator, wet skin and bruised face, low light, water lapping at his body as he holds his hand up, _hi_. Punk goes to him and resists the urge to strip off right there and jump in with him. He sits on the tiles, rests his forearms against the marble. ‘Hey.’

‘Hey yourself. Where d’you go today?’

‘Just out. Nowhere special. Bought you a gift since I  like you so much.’

Randy smiles, shifts down and the water sloshes over his chest, bubbles sticking to his skin, steam rising. ‘Oh yeah?’

‘Mhm.’ Punk looks at him, all beaten and low, he’s still got this animalistic charm, this intoxicating, distracting, dangerous quality. _God how are you real._

‘I’m sorry if I was weird earlier. Just, you know. A little concussed I guess. Tired. Worked up.’ He shrugs, gaze soft but hot, burning a hole right through Punk’s head.

‘Hey I’m the king of bad moods, so I’ll let you off the hook this time.’

Randy smiles and washes water over his arm, hand running over the shining slick skin up to his shoulder, across the back of his neck.  

‘How you feeling?’

He shakes his head a little, the trace of a grimace over his features. ‘Fine, just sore.’

‘If I find out who those guys are… they’ll be crying for their mothers all the way to the Emergency Room, I can promise you that.’

‘They’re just dumb heavies, doing Vince’s dirty work. And gettin’ paid for it just like you and me.’

‘How can you be so calm about this?’

‘They never intended to hurt me, I told you that. Right place, wrong time.’

‘Its your call. But you want me to go cave Vince’s head in, all you have to do is ask.’

‘Touching.’

Punk shakes his head, wonders what it would take to get back the Randy who nearly beat a guy to death in front of him. He looks up, Randy’s rolling his neck, closed eyes.

‘You didn’t work out today did you?’

‘You’re one to talk,’

Punk smiles, flicks foam at him with the tips of his fingers.

‘Nah, Cody would never let me. Thought he was gonna cry when he saw me earlier. Kid needs to toughen up.’

The sick feeling is back in Punk’s stomach, lurching, twisting. He remembers the way Cody had stared into his drink and spoken about staying around for Randy, cheeks flushing, words slipping. Punk hadn’t needed to see his eyes to know the look he was giving.

He caught it in his own reflection all the time.

He takes a deep breath and pushes his hand up to the wrist into the soapy water, feels it burning his cold-numbed skin. ‘Can I ask you something?’

Randy goes still, like his spine’s turned to iron. ‘…Sure?’

‘Have you and Cody ever… been more than friends?’ He looks up to see Randy frowning at him, then his face softening to a confused smile.

‘Are you serious?’

‘I’m pretty serious, yeah.’

The smile fades. ‘Where the hell is this coming from?’

‘Just answer the question.’

‘No, we’ve never been more than friends. I mean he’s like family to me, but I’m guessing that’s not what you’re getting at…’

Punk shrugs. ‘You must be blind if you can’t see it. The guy’s pining like a fuckin’ lovesick teenager.’

‘You’re shitting me. He’s – he’s a good friend, nothin’ else.’

‘He blew up when he found out about us, but he said he didn’t care if either of us were gay. So why’d he look at me like I’d just spat in his face?’

‘I don’t know,’ Randy shrugs, ‘Maybe you should speak to him about this?’

‘None of my business. I just thought if something happened I should know about it. Because, you know. I love you.’

Randy blinks at him, narrows his eyes and starts to smile again. ‘What the fuck did you just say?’

Punk feels a smirk tug at his mouth. Pushes his dry hand through his hair to hide the warmth in his face. ‘Fuck you.’

Randy sits up and causes a small tidal wave. ‘Come here.’ He holds out his hand and Punk takes it, wet and slippery. He tugs, pulls Punk forward so he’s leaning right over the tub and hauls him bodily into the water, spilling it over the sides in huge splashes. Punk’s laughing and struggling and trying to complain about his drenched clothes but Randy is there naked beneath him, eyes shining, mouth hooked in a smile, pulling him down into a kiss.

Punk breathes a laugh against him, knees locking around his waist, arms slung over his shoulders. ‘You’re such an _asshole_.’

Randy bites gently at Punk’s bottom lip, hears him groan quietly. ‘Yeah…you have a shitty taste in lovers.’

‘It’s a habit…’ He rocks against Randy, feels arms wind tight around him.

‘You’re lucky I’ve got a serious soft spot for jerks.’

Punk’s smartass reply is lost in a flurry of breaths as Randy lifts him and pushes him up onto the lip of the tub, back against the wall, fast fingers on the zip of his soaking jeans. He steadies himself against the tiles and watches Randy’s shoulders flex wetly in the low light, golden skin smelling of spice and soap, water like the ocean pushing and pulling gently at his back. His breath catches as Randy takes him in his mouth, then down to the back of his throat in one. Punk’s promise to himself about lasting longer than ten minutes seems laughable now; Randy’s tongue, long and slow strokes, strong fingers and a tight grip. He exhales shakily, gathers his thoughts just enough to wonder how life without Randy could ever be called a life at all before everything slips away into open-mouthed moans and grabbing hands, flexing thighs and murmured _jesus fuck_ -s. He wishes vacantly that Randy’s hair was longer so he could get his fingers in it and pull – but right now it looks like he’s being sucked off by Die Hard’s wet dream and that is damn well good enough.

Randy keeps him at the edge for longer than Punk would wish on anyone, fiery pressure building under his skin and all the way up his spine, sparking and shooting through him, making him twitch. He lets out a low whine, _please, god, please_ , and Randy swallows around him, all tongue and tightness and hollowing cheeks. Punk's moaning so loud it echoes in the tiled room, rolling his hips and raking his fingers at the back of Randy’s neck. He looses rational thought and words and he comes in Randy’s mouth, mind so blank in that second he might have even blacked out but he’s biting into his lip like electricity is crashing through his body, igniting him from the inside.

He holds Randy there against him until he can breathe again and whimpers brokenly when he pulls away. His eyes are black, pupils huge, mouth red and wet. Punk leans forward, goes to his knees waist deep in the water and kisses him, hands cupping the sides of his face, tastes himself and the sharp iron of blood from the split on his lip.

‘I love you.’ Randy murmurs against him, eyes low, just a little out of breath.

‘Yeah,’ Punk sighs back, a dazed smile and soft glowing warmth spreading through him, making him weak. ‘Yeah, I know.’

*

Punk is curled on the couch, head against Randy’s chest, new TV flickering against closed eyelids. Randy’s fingers run lazily through his hair, soft slow circles. Punk isn’t paying a lot of attention to anything. He’s fighting sleep, feeling it flow and settle over him like a blanket and listening to the steady thump of Randy’s heart beating against him. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Banks - Waiting Game
> 
> ***
> 
>  
> 
> I am so sorry this has taken so long! Thanks for being patient xx


	15. Lights, Camera, Action

Randy’s been absent. Here, but not. Punk’s sitting opposite him in bed, trying to talk to him about matches and techniques and maybe getting a pet snake, about taking up practical shotgun or maybe hurling himself off the roof and Randy’s just not listening. He’s looking out of the window and fussing with the sheets in his lap, not blinking.

‘-and then when I hit the ground, brains everywhere, new shirt totally ruined, you can come down and scrape me off the sidewalk…’ Punk narrows his eyes, watches for any kind of reaction and gets none. The feeling that Randy might be regretting the _I love you’s_ rises like a bad taste in his mouth. He grabs a pillow and launches it at Randy’s head, snapping him out of his reverie like he’s been slapped. He blinks and clears his throat –

‘Sorry, uh, what were you saying?’

Punk smiles, manages not to roll his eyes. ‘Nothin. You okay?’

Randy pulls one knee up and the sheets shift with it, cotton on skin. ‘Yeah, yeah just. I dunno.’

‘Come on man, I’m not fucking psychic. Something’s bothering you. Spill it.’

Randy takes a deep breath and rubs a hand over his face, wincing. He’s always forgetting the cuts and bruises, not used to being smashed up anymore. Not like Punk who doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to let that image go.

‘Did you really think something was going on with me and Cody?’

_Oh_.

The situation is so _his fault_ he might laugh, just to break the tension and get that hurt, confused look off Randy’s face. He tries not to.

‘I guess I put two and two together and got twenty-five.’

‘Was it something I did?’

‘No, no. God no. Just, the way he’s been looking at you recently. Its hard to explain.’ Punk shifts against the wall, takes time to pick his words. ‘He looks like I feel when I’m with you. I don’t know if that makes any kind of sense but I saw the signs, you know? Like…when you care about someone so much it hurts and you can’t find a way to get it out of your head. The way he talks about you, its like he’s trying to keep something to himself. Like he’s hiding something. He seems real guilty to me.’

‘The whole world’s out to get you, huh?’

‘Been that way for a while.’

‘Do you believe me?’

Punk frowns, tilts his head. ‘Of course I do. You know I trust you.’

Randy nods, his gaze drifts back to the window again, blue sky. ‘Then there’s something he’s not telling us.’

‘Could be nothing. Just me and my shitty imagination.’

‘I meant what I said. I think you should talk to him.’

‘Randy, this ain’t my business. I don’t wanna step on any toes.’

‘It is absolutely your business. And I cant go around showing everyone my face without them knowin’ I got the crap kicked out of me. People talk, reputations get ruined. If something’s going on with Cody, you gotta go find out what without me.’

‘Yeah? What reputation do you have left?’ Punk cracks a smile. ‘Everyone already knows you’re fucking me. And you saw Cody once already. Can’t get much worse right?’

Randy smirks and shakes his head. ‘It’s true. You’ve ruined me.’

Punk throws another pillow, Randy bats it away onto the floor.

‘I’ll talk to Cody, but only ‘cause I might get the chance to punch that dumb puppy look off his face.’

‘Be gentle, he might be a drama queen but he’s still my friend.’

‘Your wish, my command. All that shit.’

*

Punk tears himself out of bed and away from the warmth of Randy’s body and gets to the gym before midday. He’s hoping a little that Cody isn’t there but of course he is; the kid must have no life at all outside of pumping iron and fighting.

Punk asks around and a tall blonde guy cut like marble motions to the changing rooms, jacking his thumb _over there_. Punk heads over, feeling eyes on his back and hearing murmurs. But he’s fresh and unhurt and in fucking love so he mentally pushes out _just fucking try me_ like radio waves and walks on through as if nothing’s different. Any one of these guys could be responsible for Randy’s current condition and if a single one of them speaks up they’ll get a broken jaw.

He pushes through the door to the changing rooms and sees Cody straight away, hunched over the sinks, shorts and shoes and sweat on his back. He looks up into the mirrors when he hears the door close, sees Punk coming at him looking grim and turns, fumbling with his gym bag.

‘Hey. We need to talk.’

‘Hi, hey, how’s it goin?’ He’s mumbling, jittery, visibly shaking. Punk takes a step forward and Cody shrinks back against the mirrors. ‘E-everything okay?’ his eyes are red, glassy. Something clutched in his hands.

‘What’s with you man? You don’t look so good.’

Cody shakes his head and then nods and forces a smile and he’s blinking like he can’t keep up with his head, a physical reaction like someone’s snapping their fingers in his face.

‘Cody?’

‘I’m fine, yeah I’m fine.’

‘You’re jacked. What’s going on?’

‘Nothing, nothing. You uh, you want something? How’s Randy?’

‘He’s great. He’s…’ Punk stares and Cody withers under his gaze, visibly sags against the wall. ‘Have you been _crying_?’

‘No, just. I haven’t slept in two days.’

‘No way. I know what it’s like to not sleep, and its not like _this_. So calm down and try again.’

Cody scrapes his hands through his hair and takes a shaky breath. ‘It’s nothing, I’ve just been taking something to get me up. Just some meds. I have…I’ve got stuff.’

‘Are you sick?’

‘No-no, well yeah, I mean-’

‘Cody-’

‘It’s just Adderall. It’s just…’ He opens his fist and sets a little plastic bottle down on the edge of the sink and stares at it.

‘Do you wanna talk about this?’

Cody glances up at him, mouth a thin downward line, looking like a fourteen year old kid in too deep. He shakes his head, swallows, blinks wetness out of his eyes like he's getting ready to say something that might get his teeth punched down his throat.

‘Okay, this is tearing me up. I have to say it. I knew.’ He leans down and puts his hands on his knees like he can’t breathe. ‘Ah fuck, I knew about Randy. I knew it was going to happen.’ Punk takes a few seconds to make sure he’s heard right. All the looks, the guilt. It made perfect, sickening sense.

‘You knew.’

Cody straightens and a tear rolls down his cheek. He wipes it angrily away and sniffs. ‘Vince wanted me to do it. But I think he knew I wouldn’t be able to. So he made me keep quiet and let it happen.’ Punk shifts his weight to his other foot and looks around, rubs a hand over his mouth and just stares. ‘I tried, I tried to change his mind but he said something had to be done. Randy was getting too free. He said the word _free_. Jesus Christ.’

‘You shoulda tried harder.’ Punk’s voice is quiet and heavy like summer air before lightning. ‘You could have told him.’

‘Vince’s got me by the balls. If I said anything it would be worse. I thought they were just going to break some stuff, I didn’t know...’

‘I don’t fucking believe this. We could’ve stopped it from ever happening…’

‘Randy comes to see me looking like he’s been hit by a truck and I just lost it-’

‘No. fuck you. It was me that had to come home and find him out cold, barely breathing, covered in blood, knowing I must’ve missed the assholes that did it by _minutes_ and not being able to do a single fucking thing about it.’

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ Cody’s voice beaks. ‘He’s been my friend forever and I fucking… I fucking let them nearly kill him.’ He turns back to the sinks and leans on them, sniffing, staring down, shaking his head. ‘He doesn’t even know.’ He looks up, meets Punk’s reflection, blue eyes rimmed pink. ‘You can’t tell him. Please don’t tell him.’

‘Give me one reason why.’

‘He’s the only friend I have. Please.’

Punk inhales deep and steps forward. Snatches the pills up and shoves the bottle into his back pocket. ‘You’re an asshole and you don’t deserve him. If I catch you popping this shit ever again I’ll tell him everything. Clean your fucking act up and try to do good by him. Promise me that and I’ll drop it soon as I leave this room. Make it worth me lying to him.’

Cody nods, wipes the tears from his cheeks and faces Punk again, all shaking hands and new resolve and sorry spilling from his pores like sweat. ‘If you wanna hit me I totally understand-’

Punk punches him in the face. Knuckles to mouth and he falls back against the mirror. Punk shakes the sting out of his hand and watches Cody steady himself on the wall, blood smeared on his lips. He groans and holds up his hand, _okay that’s enough_ and Punk leaves him there, cursing and spitting.

On the way to find a cab he throws the pills into the trash and solidly wills his anger away.

*

Punk goes to his next match alone. Randy’s face is coming out in more bruises every day, he jokes he has thick blood and tough skin but Punk struggles to smile and tells him to stay home and play housewife. _Try not to screw the mailman while I’m away._

Feeling like he’s single-handedly funding the London Cab business he promises himself a new car when he’s saved enough. Nothing like Randy’s slick vicious machine (if cars ever matched their drivers this was the textbook example) but just something to get him around the city for less than twenty pounds a go. The fight is in the back of another gym, well lit, huge crowd, more gambling going down than Punk’s ever seen at one of his own matches. There’s even a warm up act and Punk can’t quiet believe his eyes when Cody strolls out all business, all tough guy, lip still swollen. Punk crosses his arms and watches him put his opponent down in less than six minutes.

Then it’s Punk’s turn and he sweats and swears and throws punches at a guy six inches taller than him and way wider, built like a concrete wall. But he is sloppy and predictable and slow and Punk vents and dodges and taunts and its like the good old days. Having Randy at ringside had been everything he needed to start with, but having him safe at home was better. He comes out with a split on his eyebrow that pisses blood but isn’t serious and a set of ribs so bruised it makes him cough, seven hundred pounds richer, plus wages from his last match. Cody sees him in the parking lot, nods and leaves without saying a word.

He’s calling a cab when he hears sirens close by. Flashing blue lights bounce off the walls of the buildings in zigzags and he ducks into the shadows, heart pounding as three riot vans screech into the street, two patrol cars just behind. Then with a violent twist in his stomach he sees another van, DOG UNIT printed on the side. He slinks down an alleyway and breaks into a run, all along the length of the building. Shouting, doors slamming, German Shepherds whining and growling just meters to his right. He’s fumbling with his phone, trying to run and check behind him as he goes, tripping on trash and splashing through puddles in the dark.

‘Hey, you okay?’

‘The cops are here, fuck, the cops busted us.’

‘What? Where are you? Are you hurt?’

‘I don’t know, I’m running, fuck its dark back here. I don’t even know which direction. My ribs, I can’t go any faster, they’re gonna catch up-’ His voice is rising in panic and he turns a corner messily, slips on the concrete and nearly falls-

‘Okay okay I’m on my way. Try and find a street sign. I’m coming.’

‘ _What if they catch up_?’

‘They won’t. I’ll pick you up. I’ll call you when I’m near the gym, just try and stay calm.’

Punk rounds another corner and skids to a stop, back against the wall, breathing hard with fire in his lungs, throat burning. He can hear the wail of more police sirens, the loud, visceral barks of the dogs. They sound close. He starts to move again, jogging this time, spikes of pain shooting up through his back and chest. The same alley, it goes on forever. He presses himself into the brick as a patrol car passes the street to his left, slow, the two officers scanning either side, then starts running again. Two minutes later his phone buzzes and Randy’s voice is in his ear.

‘This fucking place is crawling with them. I got as close as I could, where are you?’

Punk turns in a circle, searches around and sees a sign on the side of a building just up and along from where he’s standing. ‘Yeah, Church Avenue. You know it?’

‘Sure. Hang tight, I’ll be there in two seconds.’

‘Be careful okay?’

Randy has already gone. Punk leans and pushes his head back against the wall and waits, blows his breath into the air and watches it steam and spiral. He wipes sweat out of his eyes and massages his probably-cracked ribs.

His phone buzzes again.

‘I’m here, I’m right outside.’

Punk jogs to the end of the alley and peers out, sees Randy’s car parked on the opposite side of the street. Then he hears the dogs. Out of nowhere, they’re just meters away, straining and snarling on their leashes, cops behind them speaking into radios and yelling that they’ve _got one-_

Punk plunges out into the street and skirts around cars, horns blaring and smacks into Randy’s passenger door. Wrenches it open and scrambles inside. Randy’s got his foot on the gas before Punk’s even got the door shut and the cops are there, right there in the alleyway, pointing at them, spilling out like rats into the traffic.

‘Holy fuck, that was too fucking close.’ Punk breathes, shifting down in his seat and feeling like he might hurl.

‘Yeah we’re not out of it yet.’ Randy’s looking in the rear-view mirror, eyes bright from the headlights behind them. The sirens are back, impossibly loud and close and Randy is pushing the car on, weaving between trucks and bikes and people, knuckles tight, slamming the car into gear, faster, faster. A patrol car peels out to their left and they miss colliding with it by just a few inches, Punk shuts his eyes and reaches to grab the dash, whole body rigid.

‘Its okay, its fine, you got this,’ he’s saying out loud to no one in particular, knowing he’d never be able to forgive himself if Randy went to jail, the thought just makes him want to fling himself into the street under the wheels of anything passing by-

They run three sets of red lights and turn left, right, left, so fast Punk can’t believe they’re not dead and he thinks dimly that they’re _living_ every movie he ever hated, a fucking car chase, fuck-

‘I think we lost them…can you see anything?’

Randy pulls the car gently to a casual speed and its like time itself is slowing, everything lagged and heavy. Punk twists in his seat and glances all around them, sees nothing but ordinary life, nothing that makes his heart rate spike.

‘I think we’re clear…’

Randy lets out a breath and relaxes his shoulders, rubs at his neck and starts to laugh. ‘I should be feelin’ badass right now but I kinda just wanna spew.’

Punk smiles and covers his face with his hands, laughs into his palms. Adrenaline and slight hysteria bubble through him and he can’t believe his life is real. ‘Holy fucking shit that was fucking terrifying.’

‘You think they got anyone?’

‘Cody was there. But he left before me. He’s probably fine. No one else I really care about.’

‘You hurt? You’re bleeding.’

‘Its nothing, I’ll be good as new tomorrow. Ribs are hurting like hell though.’

‘We’ll have to be more careful now, you know.’

‘I’m just happy we got away. You’re one hell of a driver.’

‘When it matters, I guess.’

‘It would be a turn-on if it wasn’t so fucking scary.’

They get back to the apartment in a stunned silence, half expecting helicopters or more patrol cars any second but it’s quiet and uneventful and by the time they pull up outside the garages, Punk’s cold and his muscles are stiff.

Upstairs he strips off and limps to the bathroom, pulling Randy with him by the hand. He gets under the water and watches Randy shed his clothes, bruises on his body like tattoos, and aren’t they just a matching pair.

Punk presses himself against Randy and sinks into a kiss, hands on his skin, wet and sliding down the slopes of his body. Randy spins him and pushes him against the tiles, holds his hands up above his head and fucks him slowly, mouth on his neck, biting softly, murmuring against him.

In bed and Punk’s hurting all over, but mainly he’s just glad he’s not in a cell. His head between Randy’s thighs, mouthing and kissing and sucking and Randy is saying his name like a prayer, hushed and strained, fistfuls of sheets.

The sun’s coming up and Randy’s chest is pressed into his back, he’s moaning and jerking his hips and Punk’s just fucked out of his mind, a wet, shuddering mess, face pressed into the pillow, arms up above hanging onto the headboard as it slams into the wall, Randy’s hands biting bruises into his waist.

The blinds are closed and they sleep naked and tangled through the entire day. 


	16. Long Goodbye

Winter evening light, soft and orange slips and spills through a crack in the blinds and Punk stretches his arm across the empty side of the bed, watching it glow against his skin. Its quiet, the air cold. He gathers the covers and sits up, aching like he’s been fighting for hours but he doesn’t mind. Could never mind when it’s Randy that makes him feel like this. Satisfied, exhausted, alive.

He shuffles out of the room in just his boxers, quilt bunched around his shoulders trailing along the carpet after him.

The house is silent, dark. Punk hates the feeling of it like this. Like they don’t live here, like it isn’t important, just a place.

‘Randy?’

He wanders down the hall towards the kitchen in search of coffee and turns when he hears Randy call _in here_ from behind him. He’s in a room Punk never knew was there and the realisation of it makes him smile and shake his head and he pushes through the door. It’s a big office, open space and huge windows. Randy’s sitting at a glass-topped desk, harsh glare from a laptop on his face. Orange-yellow city sky behind him like a painting.

‘I didn’t know you had an office, Mr Businessman.’

‘Oh yeah. I’m a very important person, actually.’

‘Mhmm.’ Punk smiles and shuffles further into the room, clutching the cover at his chest. Randy’s got nothing on but a towel around his waist, bright white against his skin.

‘Everything okay?’

He leans back in his chair, stretches his arms up above his head. Punk stares at him and chews on his tongue to stop himself saying something embarrassing. ‘Not so much.’

He walks behind Randy and rests his hands on the curve of his shoulders, massaging gently, rubbing his fingers over the skin in circles. He presses his mouth to the top of Randy’s head. The quilt drops in a heap at his feet. ‘Wanna tell me about it?’

‘I have to go away for a few days.’ Punk sweeps his hands down Randy’s chest, slow, letting his fingers rise and fall as he breathes. ‘Vince wants me to pick up some new guys. Since the gym got busted he needs new faces to throw the cops off as much as he can. For a while at least.’

‘Back home?’

‘Yeah.’

‘When d’you go?’

‘Tomorrow morning. Early.’

Punk presses a kiss to Randy’s head. ‘Okay.’

‘You’ll be okay on your own?’

‘I’m a big boy.’

‘Sure you are.’

Punk straightens and runs his hands down Randy’s neck to his back. ‘Wanna get some sleep before your flight?’

‘I’ve had enough sleep.’ He gets up and pushes the chair back under the desk, closes the laptop. ‘I wanna be with you. Only a couple’a hours before I go.’

‘It makes me sick how he orders you around, like you’re his fucking lapdog.’ Punk’s eyes search his face, flicking from cut to bruise and back again. ‘He’s decided you’re healed up enough from the beating _he gave you_ to be seen in public again? Fuck, I have no idea how you do it.’

‘Hey, come on-’

‘I know, I know. I’m sorry. Just gets to me.’

‘Let me get to you instead?’

Punk smiles and lets himself be pulled by the hand back to the bedroom.

He falls lazily onto the bed and settles, stretching on his side. Randy’s pulling the towel away from his waist and Punk’s biting his lip like a teenager, seconds away from whining _come here before I fucking die._

Randy kneels on the bed and pushes Punk onto his back, rolls him like its nothing and leans over him. He’s staring down at Punk with this focused look and Punk thinks there must be a switch for that somewhere in his head, how he can just turn it on and suddenly nothing else exists but Randy’s gaze burning into him, eyes licking flame against his skin and all Punk wants is to be consumed over and over.

‘You scare the shit out of me.’

Punk’s said it before he really even thinks it and Randy’s eyebrows quirk up to say _oh, come on_.

‘Not in a bad way. I just think I’m kinda scarily in love with you. I don’t know how to deal with it.’

Randy presses his mouth to Punk’s and its like coming home every time, falling headfirst into that warm, familiar clutch.

‘You gotta stop getting so worked up.’ His voice is low, soft.

‘Can’t help it.’ Punk shrugs weakly and lays his arms up on the pillow above his head. Stretched out, giving himself.

‘Let me try.’

Randy slinks down the bed, fluid, smooth. Kisses gently along the curve of Punk’s stomach, lips parted, warm breath and rough stubble. Stops over the ‘G’ in E-D-G-E and smiles, licks it lightly and glances up at Punk, all smirking mouth and braced shoulders. Punk is lost in him, as if he could ever not be.

‘Mhm yeah this’ll work.’ Punk’s head sinks into the pillow and he tries to get his hands on Randy’s back because that skin and ink is something that needs to be touched and Randy bats them away, mouth hovering over his hip.

‘Keep ‘em up there,’

Punk swallows and rests his hands back against the bars of the metal headboard. Knots his fingers together and pushes the thought away of Randy holding him down because that is too much. He wants it slow. Wants its drip-fed so it lasts longer. Randy’s hands sweep slow and soft down Punk’s chest, over his hips. Along the sides of his thighs, pressing and stroking. He’s mouthing at the edge of Punk’s boxers, getting the hem between his teeth and snapping them against Punk’s skin. Crack, crack. A quiet laugh.

Punk wonders how long it’ll be until he learns the things he can do to Randy that somehow Randy already knows how to do to him – its been instinct and impulse so far and he’s a fast learner but Punk is aching to get into his head and break it apart, shake him and show him how it feels. Every single facet of Randy’s personality is dominant, he’s alpha through and through in everyday life but Punk knows that doesn’t mean shit about how people like to be fucked. Punk had always thought that about himself too, and now he’s on his back letting a guy bite gently at his hipbones and trying to hold back low moans and shifting his legs in frustration because he just really wants to be fucked. He’s pretty sure he would lay there and take whatever Randy could give.

Randy grips Punk’s thighs and stills him, sits up with his eyes all black and dangerous.

‘You’re not hurting are you? After last night?’

Punk breathes a laugh. ‘No more’n usual.’

‘I’m sorry, I just…’ Randy bends and presses his mouth against the inside of Punk’s thigh. ‘I can’t keep my hands off you.’

‘Its okay, it’s good. Don’t stop. Just watch the ribs.’

Randy hooks his fingers inside Punk’s boxers and pulls them slowly off over his hips, down his legs and drops them onto the floor. Punk breathes in deep and bites a smile into his bottom lip. Turns it into a moan as he feels Randy’s mouth, his tongue, hot and wet on his skin.

Maybe it’s the flush in his cheeks, the hitch in his breath or the pleading tone in his voice when Punk says his name, almost a question, from _where did you learn to suck dick like that_ almost to _this is so good it hurts_ \- but it’s a testament to how far they’ve come that Punk doesn’t even have to tell Randy when he’s ready, he just knows.

When Randy kneels and pulls Punk in close and finally fucks him, Punk’s staring up at him like he’s in a kind of fevered daze. Its quelling an empty ache that’d been building, breathing life into him, snapping him awake and making his mouth hang loose and his legs grip iron-tight around Randy’s waist. Randy sits right up, back on his heels and grips the underneath of Punk’s thighs, holding him up and Punk’s back is arching off the bed, shoulders twisting and hips rolling. His fingers gripping the headboard, skin white and he’s pushing back, slick and slow.

Its measured and deep and Punk wants to say something, tell Randy how good he feels but there aren’t words for it, not in this state. So he settles for forgetting his own name and letting Randy fuck his way into his mind, lets him have it all. And of all the different ways Randy says I love you, and all the ways he doesn’t, maybe this is the one that Punk’s never felt with anyone else. A passion, fluid and aching that fills him and blows his head wide open.

The smooth motion of Randy’s hips, rocking like the tide and his eyes, fervent, ice-grey in the evening light fixed on Punk, reading him, playing him, giving him everything he needs. Punk’s bracing his arms against the wall and spreading his legs apart, opening himself up and he wants more, wants deeper and closer and harder but doesn’t want it to change, not when Randy feels so perfect like this.

The pleading tone is back, it must be, somewhere along the way he might have said something like _come on you can do anything to me_ – and Randy bends forward, scoops his arm under the small of Punk’s back and lifts his hips up, cradling him and fucking him so deep Punk’s not even breathing properly and he’s scared if it gets any faster he’s going to come right there just like that. ‘Slow, fuck slow down.’ He murmurs, hating himself for it but wanting this to last as long as possible. Randy stills in him, slides a hand further under his back and pulls him up until Punk’s sitting in his lap, all knees and thighs and dark soft whimpers. Randy kisses him, tiny little thrusts with his hips that are barely there but keep Punk moaning quietly into his mouth.

‘I love fucking you,’ Randy breathes against him, mouthing at his jaw, sucking gently at his neck. Punk barely manages _mm-uhhh_ and he slides his eyes shut and drapes his arms around Randy’s shoulders and grinds down in lazy circles, forward and back, riding, and they’re kissing like Punk’s never kissed anyone. Messy and wet and so soft, the sun falling down behind them throwing a red haze over their bodies, sweat like dew on their skin.

Punk knows Randy is leaving, knows it isn’t for long but it makes him ache and he would stay here forever if he could, full and awake for the first time in days, slipping in and out of thoughts and feeling nothing but Randy’s body against his, breath in his ear, hands strong on his back.

‘Tell me how you want it.’ Randy’s asking, voice all bass that shudders through him.

‘Hard, I want it harder.’

Randy smiles against his mouth. ‘Sure you can take it?’

‘I’ll take whatever you’ve got.’ Punk smirks back and gets Randy’s bottom lip in his teeth. Slides his tongue and bites gently. Randy laughs low in his throat and slips his hands down to Punk’s hips. Then Punk’s back is hitting the mattress and Randy is pulling away, rolling Punk onto his front and hauling his ass up in the air. Punk cries out when Randy pushes into him, one slow stroke so deep his eyes roll back in his head.

He’s face-down in the pillow, arms braced against the wall again and Randy is pounding into him, gasping and digging dents into his skin with the tips of his fingers. Punk curls his spine and pushes back onto Randy, rhythm to match his thundering heartbeat, sharp and brutally precise and he lasts barely three more thrusts before white light shoots behind his eyes and he’s whimpering and moaning into the sheets, biting into cotton and coming so hard his mind goes dark.

Randy tightens his grip and slams his hips, short and fast and comes with a half-swallowed moan, jerking and breathing _fuck, oh my god_.

Punk whines when Randy pulls back. He falls sideways and rolls onto his back, panting. Randy sinks next to him, legs hanging off the bed. Punk lays there, scrapes hair out of his eyes, waits for his heart to slow and for the shakes to leave his body. He has never been one to cuddle after sex. He always fucked girls properly, left them sweating and satisfied and maybe a little dazed. Now he knows exactly how they felt.

Randy, breathless. ‘You are unbelievable.’

‘Yeah you’re not so bad yourself.’

Randy shifts onto his front and half crawls half falls over Punk, kisses him softly on the mouth. ‘I’m gonna miss you.’

Punk looks up at him, a one-sided smile. ‘Just a few days, its nothing, right?’

‘Right.’

Punk isn’t worried about Randy, knows he can handle himself and trusts him fully. Its himself he doesn’t trust. He’s all too aware that this will be the first time they’ll spend apart _together_. Be it two days or a week, Punk will be left alone with his thoughts and that’s never really been a benefit to any situation.

Randy takes him to the shower and Punk sits at his feet, back to the tiles, legs like lead. Randy towers over him, water pouring down his body, turning slowly under the jets like he belongs on a pedestal. Punk knows he’s put him on one already. Falling in love with the idea of someone is something that happens to everyone, but Punk’s idea of Randy is _exactly_ him. He is the dream, every inch of it. Going days without him stings like a fresh graze. Punk hopes while he has time to himself he’ll get the chance to punch himself in the face for being such a fucking sap.

He watches foam slip down the drain, looks at the skin on his fingers wrinkling, waterlogged. Takes Randy’s hand when he offers it, lets Randy pull him up and lather his shoulders with soap. Punk leans his forehead on the tiles and closes his eyes, feeling like he could really sleep this whole night through.

*

The sheets are fresh and warm and inviting. The moon is a silver coin hanging in the sky, full and round. Blinds pulled open all the way letting the night in.

The scruff on Randy’s jaw is pressed up against Punk’s shoulder blade, soft touch of his breath against his skin. Randy’s arm slung around his waist, heavy, hand curled at his chest.

Sleep is dragging at Punk, pulling him into a heavy haze. He speaks without thinking.

‘What am I gonna do while you’re gone?’

‘Maybe work out a little, you’re gettin’ flabby.’

‘Fuck you.’

He feels Randy smile against his back, arm tightening around his waist. Punk’s bruised ribs twinge but he’s so used to the feeling, its like breathing.            

‘What happens when we’re free? When we’re done with everything here. What do we do?’

‘What do you want us to do?’

Punk swallows. Opens his eyes and looks at the sky. ‘I want us to be together. I mean properly, away from all this bullshit. I wanna get a real home and meet your family and just, have a life I guess…If that’s what you want.’

‘You know I do. You’re my home.’

‘So I can just drag you anywhere huh.’

‘Mhm.’

‘Alright then.’ Punk grabs Randy’s wrist and pulls him in closer, shifts his head on the pillow and lets his eyes fall shut.

*

Powder pink of dawn. A kiss on his forehead and the click of the bedroom door. Something snags in his mind and gets buried as he falls back into the jaws of sleep.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This whole walk-out situation is really throwing me off. Hoping everything goes back to normal soon, I can't handle the heartbreak.


	17. Day One - Part One

The apartment is cold. It smells of metal and new furnishings and without Randy it seems bland and impersonal and Punk feels like he doesn’t belong. He walks to the kitchen in his boxers and makes a pot of coffee, rubbing warmth into his arms and getting homesick for sunshine. He watches rain lash against the windows in a grey miserable torrent and tries to think about nothing and fails. In a way he’s glad Randy went without saying goodbye. Would’ve probably tried his best to make him stay; puppy eyes, _please don’t go’s_ , the whole nine yards.

A pad by the phone has a number scrawled on it. Underneath Randy’s written _Cody’s cell, if you need it._ _I’ll call you._ There’s a little pit of worry in Punk’s chest, a swoop in his stomach and the longer he thinks about it and the longer he watches the rain, the bigger it gets until he starts to feel totally alone and a little pathetic. The realisation that Cody is the closest thing he has to a friend around here is enough to make him want to jump off the roof.

He finishes his coffee, takes a shower and goes to the gym.

*

As the plane pushes towards home, the sky darkens. Back in time, back into the deep crushed-plum purple before dawn. Randy’s flight is nine hours of cramped boredom and light, interrupted sleep. He’s aching and tired and filling his head with thoughts he wants to forget. Leaving the small safe world of Punk’s body, his laugh, the low hum of his voice, him sitting up in bed at night staring into the dark and Randy forcing himself awake because if Punk doesn’t sleep, neither can he, leaving all that behind makes it feel like a dream. People say absence makes the heart grow fonder and Randy thinks that’s true, but absence also makes the heart question itself. The heart says to the mind _hey, are we in this together?_

Randy asks for a strong vodka tonic and stares out of the cabin window, following the curve of the earth with his gaze. Punk has made him feel things he’s never felt before, made him want things he’s never asked of anyone. Punk has a serious _I don’t give a fuck_ attitude, except when it matters and when giving a fuck is all he can do. He’s given Randy everything.

_I’m in love with him, how did that happen?_ People don’t just fall in love, it doesn’t work like that. Except maybe it does – it doesn’t matter that he’s a guy, because what does _anything_ matter when it feels this way?

Two more drinks and a terrible in-flight movie later, the plane touches down on American soil. Suitcase trailing behind him, Randy walks to the cab line and waits, pulling his coat up around him and burying his face into the fabric. Cold wind pushes at him in sharp gusts, heavy clouds gather above threatening snow. Omaha, Nebraska.

He puts himself mentally back in London, wrapped in sheets with Punk in his lap, sweating against him, warming him and raking fingers down the back of his neck. Someone taps his shoulder and he jumps a little. Waves an apology for holding up the queue and pulls the taxi door open.

*

Punk’s coming up to his fourth mile on the treadmill, every foot hitting the rubber in sync with the mantra playing in his head – _I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine_ \- when someone calls his name. Why anyone thinks its acceptable to do this is beyond him - but he switches off the machine, wipes his face on a towel and turns to see if whoever it is deserves a black eye or not.

The guy’s a little familiar, grey hoodie and kind-looking, genuine. Punk frowns at him, panting, _this better be good_ all over his face.

‘Hey man, how’s it going?’

‘Fine, thanks.’

‘Sure, sure. Dunno if you remember me, we met before your first match? Tom.’ He holds out his hand and Punk shakes it, remembering.

‘You’re Randy’s friend.’

‘Yeah. Good to see you sticking around, you made a big impression with the guys.’

‘Can I help you with something?’

Tom smiles like he gets the hint. ‘Before you burn yourself out, there’s a match tonight, small but good money. Easy. You interested?’

‘I thought the cops were all over us.’

‘Nah, not really. They got lucky, that’s all. We’ve just gotta be a bit more discreet now.’

‘If you say so.’

‘Alright well, gimme your number, I’ll send you the location later. Last minute, you know.’

‘You work for Vince?’

‘Everyone in this fucking city works for Vince, just not all of them know it.’ He smiles again, shining eyes.

‘Alright, whatever. I could do with venting.’

‘That’s right, Randy’s gone away. I forgot.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Nothing mate. Sorry.’ Tom holds up one hand in apology and passes his phone over. Punk taps in his number. ‘Great, I’ll see you later. And whatever you’re doing, keep doing it. You’re making us rich.’ He winks at Punk and then leaves.

*

Randy’s hotel is plain and clean and totally unremarkable. He unpacks and takes a shower, jacks off to get his head straight. Gives himself a head-start against jetlag and takes a nap.

He wakes panicking from a dream two hours later, and after four seconds of faltering breath and clutching fingers he can’t remember why.

Tiny flakes of snow are drifting in the air when he leaves just after midday, thin and fast and sharp on his face, flung forward in the wind. He hires a nondescript black sedan and drives to the nearest bar through flat, vast countryside, iron grey sky and frozen earth. Since he left the apartment more than twelve hours ago, his mind has been playing Punk on a loop. Something about this bleak place is already dragging him down, clutching at his chest and squeezing. He wants to be back where he doesn’t have to think. Punk is colour and warmth and everything he needs and he aches for it.

In the bar he picks a space away from the only other people there, a small crowd gathered by the pool table, and orders a beer with whatever’s good. The waitress eyes him like she wishes it were him on the menu and brings him a free bowl of fries while he waits. He turns his phone over in his hands and stares down, something like apprehension flooding his gut. He’s putting off calling and he doesn’t know why. Maybe Punk’s sleeping; god knows he needs it. Maybe he’s busy. Or maybe Randy just feels dumb and awkward and never knows what to say because I miss you already doesn’t quite cut it. Laughter swells across the room and someone turns the music up. Randy takes a gulp of beer and sits back in his chair, fixes his eyes on the TV suspended in the far corner. The waitress, dark hair and pretty blue eyes comes back ten minutes later with a burger and a beer he didn’t ask for.

The food is fine but it doesn’t fill the empty feeling that’s growing in him. Three times he moves to pick up his phone, three times he stops himself.

*

Punk sits by himself at the breakfast bar in Randy’s kitchen and forces down a meal. Everything is too quiet, too empty. He pushes his ipod into the stereo socket and turns it up until he can’t hear himself think.

An hour later the sky is getting dark and he’s pulling on gym shorts and a loose shirt and shoving white tape for his knuckles into his pockets. His throat feels thick and he nearly calls Cody just to have someone to talk to.

He shuts the lights off and leaves the apartment in darkness. Closes the door and locks it behind him. Outside the rain has cleared and the air is fresh and still. Punk can smell wet earth from the park across the street.

*

Randy’s empty plate gets cleared and the waitress brings him another beer with a warm smile. Something in her eyes makes him watch her longer than he usually would. A kind of _get me out of this place_ look. She takes away bottles from around the big group of people by the pool table and one of the guys smacks her on the ass as she passes. Plaid shirt and baseball cap. She flips him her middle finger and disappears out back. Randy watches the TV and tries to relax. He’s got an hour to kill before he needs to be at the fight, an hour to fall apart and wallow before its back to business.

His phone is in his hand, heavy, waiting. He weighs it in his palm for a few seconds. Unlocks it and speedials his apartment before he can pussy-out. It rings and rings and rings and every second Punk isn’t there, Randy’s chest gets a little tighter. He’s at the gym, he’s showering, he’s… Randy tries again, lets it ring off until his own voice answers _I’m out, leave me something good._

Maybe its just the beer but he feels hot all over. The music is getting too loud and the taste of the food still on his tongue is making him feel full and sick. He scrapes his chair back, hands steadied on the table and hears a shout, the shattering of glass.

The waitress is on the floor, covered in beer at the plaid guy’s feet. She’s cursing and yelling and as she tries to get up, he pushes her down with the heel of his boot on her chest. Randy’s across the room in five strides, grabbing him so hard his shirt rips at the shoulder.

The guy turns and splutters and tries to wrench free. ‘Hey asshole, get your fuckin’ hands off me-’ but Randy is clamping his forearm around the guy’s neck and dragging him away, feet kicking out at thin air.

‘You picked a bad day to be dick in front of me buddy.’ Randy wrestles him across the room and pulls the door open. Shoves him outside so hard he falls on his ass in the snow-dusted gravel.

The room is quiet and Randy’s heart is banging in his chest, fast and hard. He stares at the guy, daring him to make another move – Randy feels like he could snap the guy’s spine with his bare hands – but he shakes his head stupidly and blinks as the wind whips around him. Randy goes to the waitress and offers her his hand. Pulls her up, her feet slipping on the wet floor, pieces of glass skittering away across the wood.

Plaid guy’s friends stare wide-eyed at Randy, standing stunned in a loose semi-circle, just middle-of-nowhere no-manners assholes.

‘You alright?’ Randy asks the woman and her eyes are just as wide as the others. She nods and swallows, touching her mud-smeared chest with shaking fingers. ‘Good. C’mon.’ He leads her behind the bar and tells her to wait. Back around the front and he points a finger at the group still standing, all shuffling awkwardly and trying not to look scared. ‘Get the fuck out of here right now.’

Someone knocks a chair over as they rush to leave, plaid guy shouting and dusting wet snow off his jeans outside. Randy slides the lock across behind them and the waitress sits on a barstool, dragging a bottle of cheap whiskey towards her.

‘Those assholes your regulars?’

She takes a shot, winces from the sting of the liquor and shrugs. ‘I guess. Nothin’ I can do about them really.’

‘Tell them they can answer to me if they give you any more shit.’

‘You do this kinda thing a lot? You look like you can handle yourself.’

Randy pulls a stool up opposite. ‘I dunno. Maybe trouble follows me around. Or the world is just full of pricks.’

She smiles and pours another shot. ‘Yeah I think it’s the second one. And most of them live here.’

‘Maybe you should hire some security.’

‘You want a job?’ Her smile widens and Randy feels it spread to him. ‘You got a wife?’

He shakes his head. ‘No.’

‘Girlfriend?’

‘Uh, no. Boyfriend actually. I guess.’

‘You guess? That bad huh?’

‘Not bad, just…’

‘This have something to do with your bad day?’

Randy breathes a laugh and looks over the woman’s shoulder. ‘I don’t really know why I’m saying this. Yeah. Boyfriend. I mean it sounds ridiculous, right? But that’s what he is.’

‘Shame.’

Randy shrugs. ‘Not for me.’ A few months ago he’d be necking liquor and bending her over the bar but now he couldn’t be further from that person. She pushes the bottle across the polished wood to him.

‘Look I have somewhere I need to be. And I need to drive so no thank you.’ She tilts her head and raises a shoulder like _your loss_ , and pours herself another glass. ‘You gonna be alright on your own?’

‘I’m sure I’ll manage. The chef’s back there anyway.’

‘Okay. Well. I’m hanging around for a few days, so maybe I’ll be back.’

‘Maybe.’

He gets up and is nearly at the door when he realises he’s forgotten to pay for his food. He turns, fishing his wallet out of his jeans but she waves it off. ‘Meal’s on the house. See you around.’

Randy is a 45 minute drive to the industrial estate where the fight is being held and he gets almost half way there before he remembers the sound of the phone ringing with no answer.

*

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second part of this should be finished soon. I've had this bit hanging around for days, so thought I might as well post it before you all forget about me :)


	18. Day One - Part Two

The cab driver takes Punk north, winding through backstreets, past shabby industrial buildings and run-down homes stained orange by streetlamps. This city is like any other. Beautiful on the surface, dirty and mean and real underneath. The feeling in Punk’s gut is still there, more like an aching gap now where Randy would usually be next to him, checking his gear, talking words of encouragement that Punk always felt were more to himself than anyone but he appreciated all the same. _You got this, you’re stronger than them, faster, better, you got this._ If it would do any good he’d be back at the apartment, watching the clock and replacing the blood in his veins with coffee until Randy came home. But he had made promises, and he had a job to do.

When the cab pulls up outside a floodlit football field, Punk thinks they must have gone wrong somewhere along the way. The diver’s getting antsy, suspicious, looking at Punk like he’s a criminal hunkered in the backseat, his hand held out for the charge, eyes narrowed and alert.

‘Come on mate, I got people waiting. I don’t wanna be hanging around here, its fuckin’ dodgy. Hurry up.’

The air outside is still and damp and Punk walks over gravel and wet ground to the edge of the deserted field, hooks his fingers through the high wire fence that runs all around it and listens to the silence.

One empty car in the lot, no one around. A few brick buildings, all deserted. Just the white lights and bright green fake grass and the smell of freshly fallen rain. Punk skirts all around the fence and back to the lot without seeing anyone. Wishing he’d got the cab to wait longer and hoping he won’t miss the match, he pulls his phone out and dials Tom. He kicks at pieces of gravel, watches them skim through puddles in the wet dark and waits for the call to connect.

Somewhere behind him off to the left a phone stars to ring, shrill and loud in the night.

Punk turns slowly. Tom and two others, coming from behind one of the small buildings. Punk’s stomach drops and he cuts off the call, slides his phone into his back pocket.

‘You know I thought for a second I got the wrong place.’

Tom comes to a stop a few feet away, the other two guys dressed in dark cheap sports clothes just a step behind. None of them as tall as Punk, but they look thin and tough. Tom smiles.

‘No, you got it alright.’

Punk feels exposed. Totally alone. Can’t even get his back against something to face them all head-on. ‘Wanna tell me what’s goin’ on here? Hope you gentlemen aren’t looking for trouble.’

‘We’re not looking for trouble. We _are_ trouble.’

Punk forces a laugh. ‘You practice that in front of the mirror?’

Tom’s face hardens and he glances at the guy to his left. He isn’t used to this. Punk can see it a mile off. ‘Look you jumped-up little prick, you’ve had all the chances in the world to get out of here. This is our city. Our money.’

‘Your money? Who’s fucking side are you on?’

‘My own. Maybe you should try it.’

‘So this has nothing to do with Vince.’

‘Nothing and everything. I get the best of both worlds and more money goes in my pocket. But now you’re getting in my way.’

Punk shakes his head and looks at the burnt orange-black sky with a smile. ‘I’m done with this amateur action-movie shit. If you’re gonna jump me, just do it.’

‘I want you to understand first. When you wake up in the hospital, the first thing you do is book a flight home. And you leave Randy here to play his part. And you don’t come back.’

‘Yeah, okay. I can see you worked real hard on this little plan. But you’re forgetting that you want me gone because I’m the best at what I do. I never lose. An first that was working for you right? But now not so much. So you wait until Randy leaves and you send these two punk ass fifteen year-olds to put me down? Are you fucking kidding me? Come on man, I’m insulted.’

The guys behind Tom shift from foot to foot, hunching their shoulders like circling hyenas. Tom shakes his head, breathes out and watches steam cloud in the air. ‘You fucking Americans are all the same. All talk. Bravado.’ He looks back at Punk, eyes dead on him, jaw set. ‘I’m serious Punk. Don’t come back.’

He takes one last look at the two behind him and shrugs, steps back and crosses his arms over his chest.

The two guys rush Punk together and he falls backwards, head thumping into the ground. He curls in a ball and they kick at him, back, legs and neck, eyes tight shut. The world is dark and wet and full of sharp edges and Punk struggles for breath. His phone slips from his pocket and he hears it crack under one of the guy’s feet. Punk rolls onto his side and gets a boot in his stomach for his trouble, all the air rushing out of his lungs at once.

Wet stones grate against his skin, rough ground tearing at his face as he tries to get away. Then hands are grabbing at him, pulling and hauling him onto his feet. He staggers, gasping and dazed. A tight grip closes around his arms now, just above the elbow, stretching them behind his back. One guy, and Punk recognises him now with a jolt, the German with the scar on his back, the same guy who tried to kill him during their match, stands in front of him. Skin so pale its almost colourless, cold eyes. He punches Punk in the face, knuckles mashing his lip against his teeth and all Punk can do is twist to the side, spitting blood. The guy holding his arms back tightens his grip and pain shoots through Punk’s shoulders as he straightens.

‘You fucking pussy bitch. Scared to fight fair?’ Blood drips once, twice down his chin, lands hot and dark on his shirt and coats his tongue thickly.

The guy steps up and shoves his knee into Punk’s stomach, doubling him over. He coughs and tries to pull free but the hands behind are like iron.

A vicious kick, catching Punk in still-sore ribs and he starts to cough like he’s choking. Eyes streaming, arms dead and useless twisted behind him jerk up and backwards once, twice, pulling him upright again. Then a knee in the middle of his back and another quick pull - a muffled click and pain erupts through his left shoulder and he cries out, breath steaming in front of his face, and slips down to the ground.

Punk has never dislocated his shoulder before but he’s witnessed it enough times in the ring to recognise the sounds coming from his mouth and the way the bone feels like its three inches away from where it should be.

The guy behind lets his arms drop and fresh pain blooms and bubbles through him like broken glass under his skin. He breathes hard through gritted teeth and glares up, gravel sticking in his knee, muddied rain water soaking slow and cold through his jeans.

He spits blood onto the ground and pushes himself back to his feet, left arm clutched limply at his side. Tom’s looking at him like he’s vermin and the other two are smiling like they’re just getting started.

Punk thinks about Randy. And how the last thing in the world he wants is to let him down. He’s made promises after all.

‘There’s a long list of people I’m putting down before I leave here.’ Punk manages. ‘And you just went right to the top.’

Tom smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He twists his wrist and checks his watch. It flashes orange as streetlight dances off the front. ‘Finish him off boys, I’ve got places to be.’

They come at him again, thin faces, sallow skin stretched over skulls like caricature reapers. Gold chains at their necks, mud specked over their tracksuits.

Six seconds is all it takes. Punk ducks under a right hook and slams his elbow into the side of the guy’s head just above his ear, as he falls with his own momentum. He jerks sideways and away and the other is coming at him fast and messy. Punk turns good side on and takes the brunt of a punch on his right shoulder. He kicks out and gets the guy in the gut, makes him bend forward and cough, stagger back a few feet. The one on the floor clutching the side of his head is rolling slowly onto his back and Punk stamps on him hard, feels two ribs crack under the arch of his foot. Six seconds. One down, one to go.

The guy with the scar is getting his breath back, gathering himself. Punk tests his left shoulder and it feels like it’s been set alight. The muscles are cramping, tight and hard as marble. Totally useless. Tom’s eyes are set on the guy whimpering on the ground like he’s just seen his best chance beaten in two hits. He looks up at Punk and then he turns and walks away.

Punk sees him go but only for a second. Then last man standing is on him again, right in his face smelling of cigarettes and stale beer and sweat. He reaches out to shove Punk to the ground and Punk meets him halfway, headbutts him just once and he recoils again, shaking himself, breathing hard, unsteady on his feet.

Punk’s measured in-ring mentality has disappeared like water down a drain. Adrenaline is pounding through him, flushing the pain out of his shoulder and forcing his heart to beat faster, blowing his pupils and flooding his veins with white hot anger.

This time he doesn’t wait for the attack. He steps up and feigns a punch then kicks down hard on the guy’s knee, snapping it right back, sending him to the ground. He steps forward and stands over him, feet either side. The guy's panting and groaning and rolling and gripping his knee. Punk leans down and grabs the front of his jacket, heaves him up and slams his head down into the dirt. ‘Do not-’ once more with a stony crunch, ‘-fuck with me.’

He’s grimacing and grabbing at Punk’s ankles now, getting handfuls of his jeans trying to pull himself up. Punk shakes one leg free of his grip and puts a foot to his throat. Presses down a little until the guy’s eyes go wide. ‘Wanna know what choking is like? Is this fun for you? You like this? I should snap your neck right fucking now.’ The guy’s mouth is moving but no air’s getting there and his fingers curl around Punk’s shoe, digging in. Colour starts to come to his face, pink flushing his skin. ‘You would’ve killed me wouldn’t you? Without a doubt.’

Punk pushes down a little harder and the guy’s chest starts to heave up and down, empty.

‘I feel like wiping you off the face of this planet but you’re not worth the jail time. So listen good asshole. I see you ever again? I’ll change my mind.’

Punk pulls his foot away and the guy gulps in oxygen and rolls onto his side, coughing. Punk is walking away, splashing through puddles, leaving the parking lot and the field behind him, back towards the street. His shoulder is burning again, an electric inferno of pain that spreads all down his arm and across his back.

Everywhere is deserted. Businesses closed up for the night. Industrial yards empty and dark. Punk doesn’t know how long he’s been out; it feels like ten minutes but might have been over and hour. The only living things he sees are two Pitbulls chained up at the back of a garage and they watch him with shining eyes and open mouths.

His shoulder is hurting so badly he can’t concentrate. He ducks down against a low brick wall and leans heavily on it, crouching and holding his left arm close to his body. He’s never done this before but he’s seen it in movies and how hard could it really be?

He skims his fingers over the joint, feels its sticking out, feels the muscle clamped tight around it, feels the heat from it through his shirt. He breathes in deep and closes his eyes, clenches his jaw, grips his bicep and pushes.

*

Randy is watching two men beat each other into the ground. A savage fight with seemingly no rules. The day rolls on and the sky outside gets darker and snow begins to fall heavily, painting the world white and grey. The boxing ring is in a small building at the back of an estate, crammed with people, the floor wet with spilled beer and condensation slipping down the dirty windows. Randy stays at the back and waits for the bell to ring. He is good at his job and this is the last time he ever wants to do it. He’d picked the guy he wanted as soon as he walked in. Tall and tough and a fair fighter. Integrity and intelligence.

But Randy can’t concentrate. He is drifting. He cant even pinpoint the feeling; maybe guilt, maybe worry, he just wants to hear Punk’s voice, _hey handsome, what’s up_ , and maybe his laugh would lift the thunderclouds off Randy’s shoulders. The decision to leave him without saying goodbye is rattling around in his head with this voice getting bigger and louder screaming _that was the dumbest thing you’ve ever done_. _You shouldn’t have left him at all._

He decides to head back to where the fighters change. A little room with three sinks, two benches and a mirror. He sits and listens to the shouts of the crowd through the wall.

Few months ago he was sitting in a place just like this waiting for his next guy. He’d banged into the room, tattoos bright on his skin, hair wet on his forehead, eyes alight.

_What is it my birthday or somethin’? Who the fuck are you?_

And something in Randy had twitched, deep in his mind, it said this one’s different. There’s something about him. He’s not like anyone you ever met before.

He was fresh from the ring and he was pissed, sweat dewed on his skin making it shine under the strip lights. Randy kept noticing the way he’d touch himself without realising, a hand sweeping a slow arc over his stomach, or down the back of his neck pressing hard like he was sore there; or putting his fingers to his mouth, fidgeting in between sentences. Maybe he did realise. These things are like the sun coming up to Randy now. Familiar and normal and perfect and back then, when they first met they just made him seem so physical, so present, so inside his own skin and he had this look about him, a kind of off-hand arrogance. A smirk pulls across Randy’s face and he starts to think about how far the airport is, and that if he rushes he can make it before dark.

He meets the fighter six minutes after he hears the bell. Randy explains his opportunity and the guy smiles. Dark green eyes, a bruise swelling on his left cheekbone in a pink-yellow smear. He tells Randy to go fuck himself.

 

*

Punk walks and walks, the streets dancing and blurring through eyes that just wont stop watering. A few cars pass him and he keeps on, right hand held tightly around his left wrist, cradling his arm. By the time he finds a cab, the cold is biting at him, making him shake and the blood on his chin has dried to a rusty orange. He covers his mouth and asks for Hyde Park. The driver doesn’t even notice.

In the back seat he rubs warmth back into his legs and relaxes into the seat. Energy is draining out of him with every breath and when the cab pulls up outside the apartments he’s exhausted and aching all over.

*

Randy gets back to his hotel and with a sick sinking feeling in his gut starts to raid the minibar. He draws the curtains against the afternoon light, kicks off his shoes and dumps his jacket on the floor. Lays on the bed with his feet hanging off the edge, little bottle of Whisky in his fist, staring at the ceiling. It takes him almost half an hour to call Punk, and when he does the phone rings and rings in his ear and when his own voice speaks back to him again it sounds like a stranger.

He drinks a vodka down in one. Opens another and sips at it, eyes drifting over the fan on the ceiling, not really seeing it. The phone still in his grip, he dials Cody.

‘Hey, uh you got a minute?’

‘Hold on I’m driving, let me park up. You okay?’

‘I uh, I dunno. I just need to talk.’ Randy hears traffic and the click of the handbrake down the line.

‘Alright I’m good. What’s going on?’

‘Have you seen Punk?’

‘Uh, not for a while. Why?’

‘He’s not answering the phone. I’m kinda getting a little worked up about it.’

‘I’m sure he’s fine Randy, he’s a tough guy.’

‘Yeah, yeah I know. Just…’

‘I’m all ears, you know that.’ Cody is used to that shake in Randy’s voice and he knows what it means.

‘If this gets a little TMI, just stop me alright.’

He hears Cody’s laugh, thousands of miles away. ‘I think we passed that point a long time ago. Remember when that girl ditched you, you found out she cheated and you cried? I mean you cried for like, forty minutes into my shirt? There aint nothing you can say that would make me uncomfortable after that.’

‘Yeah I’ve been tryn’a forget that ever since it happened.’

‘Alright, alright. Come on.’

Randy takes a breath and closes his eyes. Rubs a hand over his face and pinches the bridge of his nose.

‘Jesus Cody it’s been barely a day and I’m falling apart here.’

‘That’s what being in love feels like.’

‘I’ve been in love before okay, and it wasn’t like this. I feel like I’m sick or high or hung-over or all fucking three. I met a girl today, and I could’a fucked her. She wanted me to.’

‘But you didn’t.’

‘Of course I fucking didn’t. What I’m saying is. Jesus what I’m saying is that I _would’ve_ , before. Punk did something to me. Like changed me.’

‘Maybe you just grew up?’

‘Was I such an asshole that its taken this to make me realise it? Because now I’ve got this weird sick feeling ‘cause Punk’s over there gettin’ his ass kicked for me and I’m here drinking myself to death and losing my shit on the phone to you. He doesn’t deserve that. And I don’t fucking deserve him. He’s too good. I mean you never really notice how crazy things are until you get away, you know?’

‘Look, you gotta stop right now. You get tense and you over think like crazy and you get self destructive. Especially when you drink. It just sounds like you miss him.’

‘I do, I really fucking do. I don’t know what is about him, I just… He said that I scare the shit out of him. An, I’ve been thinking and maybe its the other way around. ‘Cause, being with him is like this chemical reaction, I can’t stop myself, it’s like jumping off a cliff, you know? There’s no maybe about it. I’m all in and I’m fuckin’ scared he’s gonna wake up one day and say he’s had enough. Like, really properly scared. I mean fuck, I don’t know how to do this. He knows the deal and he’s still around but something’s telling me its not gonna last. No way. A person can only take so much, right? You told me this would happen and I’m sorry I didn’t listen but I’m a fucking asshole and I never listen to anyone. But what if he already left? What if I get home and he’s gone? I never felt like this Cody, I’m drivin’ myself nuts here.’

‘Randy…’ A few seconds of level silence and then - ‘You’re kidding, right? You two fell for each other so hard it’s a miracle you didn’t break your necks. He’s a great guy. Loyal and so protective it’s actually a little ridiculous. Maybe we don’t see eye to eye but most times he’s just looking out for you, and so am I.’ Cody breathes a deep sigh. ‘Look, just try him again, okay? Tell him you’ll be back soon and then get some sleep. He’s not going anywhere. He cares about you man, believe me.’

Randy finishes his drink and lets the empty little bottle drop and roll away across the carpet. ‘Yeah... you’re right, I guess. Thanks, really. Sorry you had to hear that.’ Randy forces a laugh into his voice and it comes out sounding broken.

‘If you ever need someone to talk you down from doing something fucking stupid, you call me, alright. I’ve been kinda absent lately and I’m a shitty friend sometimes but I’m always gonna be around if you need me. You’re a brother to me.’

‘A shoulder to cry on, right?’

Cody laughs. ‘Sure.’

‘Okay.’

‘Call him again. Get some rest. Don’t think too much. And stop drinking.’

‘Yeah. Night Cody.’

‘Night.’

After Randy hangs up he holds the phone in his hand for another minute before he dials his apartment.

*

Punk limps up the corridor and his hands are shaking so much it takes three tries to get the key in the lock.

The apartment is dark and warm and safe and he falls back against the door and listens to the silence, closes his eyes and breathes deep.

The phone goes off like a siren, makes Punk jump and his eyes snap open. He pushes off from the door and walks to it, the LCD screen lit up bright blue the only light in the room. Not a number he knows. Not even a familiar area code. Punk finds himself reaching for the receiver before he really thinks about it.

‘Punk?’

A sigh and a low laugh and warmth spreads through Punk and he slips to the floor, leans his back against the wall. ‘Fuck its good to hear your voice.’

‘I miss you. I miss you so much.’

Punk pushes a hand through his hair. ‘I wish you didn’t have to go.’

Randy takes a breath. ‘I’m sorry. I should’ve said goodbye. Are you okay?’

‘I’ve been better.’

‘What – did something happen?’

Punk stares into the dark and swallows. ‘Tom jumped me. He’s double-crossing Vince. Tried to wipe me out tonight.’

‘Fuck, Punk I didn’t know I’m sorry – are you hurt?’

‘Nothin’ bad. He had two guys with him, your favourite Germans. Shoulder got dislocated but I got it back no problem.’ The lie comes easy and Punk clenches his left fist in his lap, feels a wave of pain shoot through him.

‘Jesus. I don’t know what to do, I…fuck. I’m sorry. I should come back.’

‘No. No you take as long as you need.’

‘Don’t be a hero. I want to.’

‘Vince’ll just send you back if you rush it.’

‘I can tell him about Tom if it makes anything easier.’

‘You know what. Just leave it. I don’t give a fuck, they deserve each other.’

‘I wish I could be with you.’

‘Yeah.’

‘I been trying to call you all day. Guess I know why you didn’t answer now.’

‘I’ll just say it’s been a weird night. Not one I’d care to repeat.'

‘I’m so sorry. I had no fucking idea he was like that.’

‘No one did. I can't talk about it, I'm gonna get mad again. How’s it going with you?’

‘Not so great. First guy turned me down. If I don’t get someone tomorrow I’m gonna have to stay another two days until the next fight.’

‘I’m sure you’ll do great. You’re very charming.’

Punk hears Randy laugh and his chest starts to ache. ‘I didn’t know I could even need a person like I need you.’

‘You’re telling me.’

Silence stretches between them and Punk is reminded of how good they are together. _Physically_ together. This distance is killing him. He wants Randy’s hands on him, wants the hard smooth curves of his body. Wants those arms around him.

‘I called Cody just before, I was freaking out about not knowing where you were. Don’t mind saying I nearly cried.’

A laugh tears out of Punk and he leans his head back and looks at a crack of sky through the blinds. ‘You’re ridiculous.’

‘Fuck you.’ Randy mutters and Punk can hear the smile, almost see it like they’re face to face.

‘I love you.’

‘Yeah. I love you.’

‘I’ll be back soon.’

‘I hope so.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are getting really slow and I'm so sorry! Work is nuts and taking up all my time. Anyway. Hope this chapter (kinda) makes up for it. x


	19. Move Along Part 1

Punk wakes disorientated in the dark; slumped in a chair next to the phone. The clock on the wall reads 2:35am. He blinks in the gloom and gets up slowly, body seized and sore. Discarded icepacks soak wetly into the carpet and he steps over them and heads for the bedroom, one hand out, fingertips trailing the wall. His shoulder is a dull point of dark throbbing pain that seems to radiate through his entire being. His left hand feels fat and useless and dead.

The sheets are cold and Punk’s head is spinning when he sinks down, pulls the covers over himself and closes his eyes. He slips in and out of sleep, sometimes thinking or maybe just dreaming that Randy is there next to him; a warm, firm body, a hand slung over his hip, or mouth against his shoulder. Randy is pushing at him, rolling him and kissing him like its goodbye and Punk is kissing back, holding him close. He tastes sweet and smells of fresh air and soap and the leather of the seats in his car and Punk moves beneath him, sinks his face into the soft curve of his neck and breathes him in.

He snaps awake like someone has shouted his name. He sits up and sucks in air and rubs his eyes and stares blindly into the silent room. But it isn’t quite silent. Not like it should be.There’s a click from the hallway. Seconds tick on and Punk thinks maybe he didn’t hear it at all; maybe it was just part of the dream – but then he hears it again, louder, like a door closing. Like someone being deliberately quiet. He peels the cover away from his body and slides his legs out of the bed, sits on the edge with his fingers hooked on the mattress. His heart slams in his chest. 4:19am.

A thought flashes in his head, quick and bright but its shot down before it even fully forms because Punk knows Randy could never back it back this fast. He stands and moves to the door, presses his ear to it and listens to nothing. It creaks softly on the hinges when it opens and Punk steps into the hallway with a bad feeling pushing through his blood.

He can smell coffee. Fresh. As he turns the corner his feet root him to the carpet and a quick shiver breaks out over his skin. The TV he switched off is flashing images, some reality show on mute throwing lights and shadows against the walls. Punk forces himself into the room and shuts it down at the plug. In the kitchen two mugs sit on the counter and a thin plume of steam rises from the coffee maker. Punk can smell something else now; men’s cologne. Sharp and foreign. Expensive. He stands in the room, pushes away the cold feeling that is crawling slowly up his back and takes a breath. Four seconds later he’s wrenching the front door open and jogging down the hallway to the elevator. Out of order sign, flashing red. Through a door to the right and into the stairwell lit by white fluorescents and utterly silent.

Punk gets three floors down the fire escape before his shoulder starts to throb so badly he has to stop and catch his breath, back against the wall, flooded with a kind of panicky hopelessness. He bends over, palm cupped over his collarbone and breathes deep.

Minutes pass and Punk hates himself for being so goddamn reckless; no way he’d be able to stop and bring down anyone in this state. Probably end up in an alley soaking in his own blood until morning. But his pain turns his prickly fear into something more manageable; a low, deep and focused anger that boils through him, warms him from within; comforting almost. He can work with anger. He knows it like an old friend.

He pushes away from the wall and starts back up the steps, bare feet on cold concrete.

Back in the apartment he tips the cooling coffee down the sink and settles next to the phone. Redials Randy’s hotel and closes his eyes, rubs them hard with one hand. Static breaks across the line and there’s a beep. So quiet, but Punk hears it three more times. Then a click. More static and it starts to ring. Punk sits back, looks at the receiver like its a foreign object and slams it down.

*

Dawn bleeds its way into the sky and Punk sits with a baseball bat he found in Randy’s room across his lap, eyes set dead on the door.

 

*

Cody answered the phone at 8:30am, sounding like he was still asleep. More static on the line.

‘I need to see you.’

‘Punk?’

‘Right now.’

‘What th- has something bad happened?’ Punk hears the sound of sheets and skin and the creak of mattress springs.

‘I just need to talk to you. Get your ass over here.’

‘You’re freaking me out man, seriously.’

‘I’m not gonna tell you again.’

Punk hangs up and pulls the phone cord out of the wall. Cody made it over close to 9am, two knocks and a few steps inside before he sees the look on Punk’s face.

‘What got up your ass?’

Punk massages his shoulder and leans back against the kitchen counter and watches Cody shuffle towards the coffee machine.

‘Someone was here last night.’

Cody pours himself a cup and a crease breaks on his forehead. ‘Someone?’

Punk watches until Cody takes his first sip and closes his eyes in sweet caffeine relief. Gives him the chance to wake up. ‘Yeah if you could just muster a little concern, someone broke in here while I was sleeping.’

‘They take anything?’

‘You think just anyone could get up here? Have you seen those locks? Had to be someone with a key. They didn’t take shit, just made sure I knew they’d been here. They bugged the phone.’

Colour drains from Cody’s face and he sets his cup down. ‘Ah fuck.’

Punk gives an over exaggerated nod ‘Uh-huh.’

‘I didn’t know anything about it, if that’s what you think.’ Cody holds his hands up.

‘I’m not gonna hit you again, relax.’

‘Says the guy who loves hitting people.’

‘If you say you didn’t hear anything about it this time, then I believe you.’

‘Swear it, man.’

Punk rubs his face. ‘Alright. And I don’t _love_ hitting people.’

‘So you think it was Vince again?’

‘I don’t know. Wasn’t just one. Two, maybe three guys.’

‘So they didn’t break anything? Or, I dunno, leave a horse’s head on your pillow?’

Punk sighs deep and stares out the windows to a grey sky. ‘Nothing bad. I just get the feeling it was a territory thing, you know? Like, power. Different to when Randy found them here smashing all his stuff up.’

‘Have you told him?’

‘Can’t risk calling if they can hear every word I say.’

‘I thought you had a cell.’

‘Yeah. I did. It…got broken.’

Punk can feel Cody looking him.

‘You okay?’

‘I’ve just had a really weird 24 hours.’

‘Want a hug?’

A smile pulls at Punk and it feels good, lifts him a little. ‘No, its okay.’

But Cody’s already coming close and he pulls Punk into the most awkward man-hug he’s ever experienced. Punk gives up trying to push him away, knows he’s just doing what he can.

‘How’s it going with…’ Punk pats him on the shoulder, gets some air between them. ‘-You know. You.’

Cody straightens and shrugs a little. ‘I’m good. Better.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

*

They get the locks changed and split the cost of a new security alarm. Cody stays until he’s sure Punk isn’t going to do something stupid like take a hit out on Vince. _‘Don’t kill him okay? We need him.’_ He gives Punk his cell and tells him to use it if any other shady shit happens. Randy will call when he finds the apartment line dead and then there’s nothing left to do but wait.

Night smothers the city and turns the sky dirty black-purple. Exhaustion fizzes in Punk’s head like a cut cable and by 10 the phone plug is still hanging limply down the wall and Punk is staring out the windows at his own reflection. He gets a drink, splashes some water on his face and crawls into bed.

All he wants is to hear Randy’s voice. He wants it so much it makes him ache.

He falls asleep with the door open and the lights on and silence pressing in.

*

Punk sleeps through by himself for the first time in what might be months. His back is stiff from laying on one side, his shoulder twinges sharply but when he scuffs into the bathroom rubbing grit out of his eyes, he feels right in his head. Feels quiet and present and aware. And goddamn hungry.

Everything is exactly how he left it; doors locked, TV off. He doesn’t think the apartment will ever lose that new show-home smell, not in a million years. But he doesn’t mind it anymore. It makes him think of Randy. Of the day he brought Punk here, nothing but a duffle bag full of clothes to his name, already willing to fight, probably already willing to do just about anything for this guy. This huge tattooed, blue-eyed guy whose smile made Punk clench his fists inside his hoodie pockets and forget how to hold a real conversation.

Cody’s cell starts ringing and Punk blinks himself back to reality. Stretches across the counter and snatches it up.

‘Cody, hey I-’

‘Randy?’

‘-Punk?’

‘Yeah, yeah its me.’

‘You okay? I tried calling the house but nothing was going through I thought something happened-’

‘Something did happen. But I’m okay.’

‘Fuck, what now?’

‘Vince sent some guys back here, night before last.’

A few seconds of silence. ‘Tell me they didn’t hurt you.’

‘They didn’t even see me. I promise you, I’m a-okay. I’m sorry, I didn’t want you to worry but they bugged the phone so…’’

‘They fucking-? Jesus, Punk this is insane.’

Punk laughs quiet, wishes he could calm Randy down. Hold his shoulders and kiss him slow, take some of the fire out of him. ‘Nothing I can’t handle.’ He hears Randy take a deep breath, feels it like a kick to the ribs. ‘When are you coming home?’

‘That’s why I called.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘I’m at the airport. I just landed.’

‘You’re shitting me.’

‘I kinda wanted it to be a surprise but… well, you ruined the mood.’

Punk smiles. ‘Sorry.’

‘I’ll forgive you if I can get a ride,’

‘You know I don’t have a car, right?’

‘Take mine, I always wanted to see you drive it.’

Punk swallows, feels a hot smirk curve across his mouth.

‘I’ll be there in 20.’

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow its been a million years and this is a terrible comeback. But yay for writing again!


	20. Move Along Part 2

Punk’s head is a tangled mess of nerves and relief on the way to the airport. Randy’s car is like nothing he’s ever driven, fast and maybe a little too much for him, responsive, just like its owner and he isn’t concentrating enough. Rain hammers on the roof and he sits in traffic and waits for the lights to change with a twisting, swooping feeling in his stomach.

He isn’t scared about seeing Randy. He’s scared in case something’s shifted between them; all the drama filling up the space they need to breathe with worry and _sorry’s_ and barely muttered regrets. He’s not scared of seeing Randy. Just scared of how much he needs him. Maybe that didn’t matter before but it does now. Punk still isn’t used to needing anyone but himself and now after barely three days on his own his life has come very close to imploding in on itself more than once. Punk’s only saving grace is the inkling that Randy feels the same way and it fills him with guilt but he wants it to be true, maybe just to prove he isn’t crazy. Or at least, he isn’t alone.

He breaks the speed limit fairly consistently until the he makes the slow arc towards the pick-up area. He parks up and peers through the windscreen, swimming shapes in the rain blurring and melting together. He checks Cody’s cell and is a second away from dialing when the trunk gets popped and Punk hears a suitcase being crammed in. Randy slips around the hood and slides into the passenger seat, all legs and black fabric and slams the door shut. Punk opens his mouth to say something but Randy is leaning across the console and getting a hand on the back of his neck and kissing him. Warm and familiar and slow and hard. His fingers push through Punk’s hair and he feels the hot slick of tongue against his lips. ‘I missed you.’ Randy mumbles against his mouth. He tastes of spearmint gum and vodka soda and Punk doesn’t care. ‘I'm sorry I left and all that shit happened to you and I'm sorry I didn't say goodbye.’

Punk takes a breath against him, head spinning with how much he needed this. He pushes in closer, kissing Randy because he doesn't know what to say, or because maybe there isn't a way of saying everything he feels. It's like there’s magnets in their chests, crushing them together and this close just isn’t close enough.

‘Longest three days of my life.’

‘You doing okay?’ Randy’s forehead is resting against Punk’s and he’s watching Punk’s mouth.

‘I am now.’

Randy skims his hand down Punk’s neck, tucks his fingers under the hem of his shirt and sits back a little. Blue eyes and that perfect profile. ‘Wanna get outta here? We got catching up to do.’

Punk doesn’t know if he means in the talking sense or otherwise but he’s betting it doesn’t include clothing of any kind. He swallows and starts the engine, letting the roar buzz through his feet. ‘Your car is ridiculous. I nearly died on the way here.’

Randy huffs a laugh. ‘Its kinda pretty though, huh,’

‘Yeah, its real pretty.’

The journey back seems infinitely long and the traffic is building and the more Punk has to wait to have Randy’s hands on him, the slower everything gets. They try and talk about Randy’s trip away, how Randy couldn’t pick anyone up and how the place was basically a total dump and what bullshit lie he’ll feed Vince so he doesn’t get sent back - but he keeps looking at Punk, watching his hand on the gearstick, watching him make the turns through the city and Punk’s starting to feel a little self conscious about it.

‘You wanna drive?’

Randy smirks a little, mouth up at one side. ‘Nah, just. I was right, you look good. Maybe when this is over I’ll employ you to just take me places.’

‘You couldn’t afford me.’

They’re floating in the limbo between wanting to fuck the _I miss you’s_ away and wanting to say things that are important and Punk doesn’t know which one he wants more but blood is rushing in his ears and his stomach feels tight.

‘Sure I could. Turn here.’

‘What, right now?’

‘Yeah, yeah into the parking garage.’

‘Why?’ Punk swings the car left and bumps up the ramp.

‘Because you’re driving me insane and I don’t wanna wait anymore.’

‘Wait for what?’

They find a space and Punk’s barely shut the engine off before Randy’s reaching across him and opening his door. ‘Out.’

‘Randy its like two miles-’

‘Out, out, get out.’

Punk rolls his eyes but cant stop the smile that spills across his face, the hot feeling in his cheeks as he climbs out and slams the door shut, leaning against it.

Randy practically vaults the hood to get at him, Punk wants to make some smartass remark about scratching the shiny pretty paint but he cant think of anything at all when Randy’s taking his face in his hands, pressing his thumbs gently at the hinge of his jaw and pushing his tongue into his mouth.

Punk’s bones feel like they disappear with the warm press of Randy’s chest to his, and he melts forward into it. He rocks his hips almost accidentally, feels betrayed by his body for being so easy to read but he’s never been one to lie about wanting something. And he wants Randy, he wants Randy to fuck him maybe even right here with the smell of leaked car oil and stubbed out cigarettes all around them because three days without it is too long. His brain thinks all of this and as soon as Randy moves to kiss at his neck his mouth blurts it out in a murmur, ‘Are you going to fuck me up against your car?’

‘Only if you want me to.’

Randy has a hand on Punk’s jaw and turns his head to a get better angle at his neck and Punk goes with it. Slides his hands under Randy’s shirt and lets his fingers follow the ridges of muscle to his ribs.

‘I’m gonna die of blue balls, Jesus. Of all the ways to go,’

‘You mean you didn’t bust one out even once while I was gone?’

Punk bites his lip to stop any sound coming from his mouth when Randy pops the button on his jeans and slides his hand down the front, slow and deliberate.

‘I was kinda busy, actually.’ He huffs out.

‘Right, yeah. Sorry.’

Randy seems different; almost like everything about him has intensified. Punk cant remember a time when Randy’s mauled him like this, been so animalistic, sucking bruises into his neck, pinning him up against the car with his hips and rubbing him off like it’s what he was made for. Usually he’s careful first, watchful. Now he’s just doing what the hell he likes and Punk feels like his brain is leaking out of his ears.

‘You want this now or are we waiting until later?’ Randy’s lips against Punk’s skin making him feel shivery and hot at the same time.

‘You’re not gonna make me come in my pants like a teenager okay, fuck you,’ he hisses out, because he feels like he’s better than that. Randy laughs, presses his mouth back to Punk’s and kisses him, slow and wet. But Punk’s closer to coming in his pants like a teenager than he wants to admit and he’s breathing like something’s sitting on his chest.

‘Want me to stop, just say,’ Randy’s voice is low and rough like it is when they’re screwing and Punk doesn’t think he’s ever missed something so much. He never knew he needed someone so physical, never knew he needed someone to be like this with him, for him. Never wanted anyone’s body so badly and had them want his back just as much, or maybe even more. It’s a twisted way of showing affection, but its suits them.

‘You fuck, I can’t believe this,’ Punk breathes, letting his head drop against Randy’s shoulder and rocking his hips up into his hand.

‘Hey I just wanted to touch you, you make me – fucking crazy, I don’t know, I just needed to touch-’

‘It’s okay I like it I-’

‘I’m sorry you’re just so-’

‘Randy-’

‘I love looking at you and touching you, _fuck_ -’ Randy slips his hand out of Punk’s jeans with a frustrated groan and he’s shoving them down Punk’s hips, just to get a little more space. The air is cold and makes his bare skin prickle and then they’re pressed back together again, Randy’s hand moving slow, twisting with his wrist in a way that makes Punk’s stomach muscles twitch and his mouth go slack.

He wants to say something, tries and comes up with nothing but ‘Randy-’ again, kind of strangled and desperate and it makes his face feel hot.

‘Mhmm?’ Randy moves to kiss him but doesn’t, just presses their mouths close. ‘What,’

‘Nothing – you,’

‘Me,’

‘Fuck, you have to – you have to fuck me-’ Punk’s vaguely proud he didn’t plead, didn’t even ask, though he’d get on his knees and beg if Randy told him to.

Randy gets his hand on Punk’s hip and turns him, presses his chest down onto wet black aluminium, cheekbone and jaw against the cold metal. He follows with his body pressing right up against Punk’s ass, crouched over him one hand braced next to Punk’s head, mouth on the back of his neck. ‘You want me to bend you over my car and fuck you right here?’

Punk’s brain doesn’t know the answer to that and it’s halfway to thinking _what if someone sees us_ when his mouth mutters -‘Mhm, yeah, yes I do.’

His jeans slip a little and he feels the cold sting of Randy’s belt buckle against his ass, hears it jingle as it comes undone. He closes his eyes, rolls his head so just his forehead is resting on the car, tries to get his breathing in order when Randy is spitting on his fingers and Punk knows its going to hurt but it’s a pain he doesn’t mind, maybe he even likes it. Feels like his chest is going to burst open with the need to have Randy just let lose on him, fill him and make himself feel good again. Screw the last three days right out of their memories. Like none of it ever happened. Like nothing changed.

‘Sure you’re okay? Your shoulder isn’t too-’

‘It’s fine. I’m fine. Please-’ There, he said it. And the realisation makes him smile, makes him curl his fists up and maybe spread his feet a little further apart on the concrete. Randy sweeps a warm hand down his back, all the way to where his jeans and boxers are bunched at the tops of this thighs. Punk’s half expecting, or maybe hoping for a hard smack on the ass because those hands are everywhere on him, strong and purposeful and possessive, but instead he gets a finger pushed slow and careful into him and it makes his whole body twitch. He breathes out hard and bites into his lip, a shiver rolling right through him. Randy stands up straight and Punk feels alarmingly vulnerable and he can hear cars on the street outside and people talking but his mind is fogging with sensation and he cares less and less as Randy slides a second finger in next to the first and breathes something strained that sounds like Punk’s name.

Punk he lets out a choked moan that spills into a throaty sound he can’t quite hide, nails digging into his palms. ‘ _Fuck_ , Randy,’

'Just say when,' Randy’s fingers are sliding in a deep rhythm so slowly it makes Punk’s legs feel weak and he’s murmuring under his breath, _yes yes yes_ -

He takes a deep breath to steady himself and closes his eyes, covers his mouth with his hand to stem the flood of curses that are spilling out into the damp air. He could probably come just like this because no matter what Randy chooses to do it always reduces Punk's stamina to nothing and turns him into a whimpering fucked-out mess.

'I'm good, c'mon.'

He hears Randy spit on his hand, a dirty sound that fills him with sparking apprehension. Randy pushes into him and feels huge and hot and painfully raw and Punk bites a hard moan into the back of his hand splayed flat on the hood of the car.

‘Fuck, sorry. God you feel so good,’ Randy breathes, a tiny flick of his hips that he’s trying so hard to control. His fingers dig into the curve of skin at Punk’s waist and he sighs shakily ‘Is that okay?’

‘Just a sec,’ Punk chokes out, physically willing himself to relax. His fingers are shaking and tapping against the car, taking his mind off the burning pain until it starts to subside. He thinks blankly that Randy deserves some kind of reward for just standing there with his dick buried in Punk’s ass without fucking it like he really wants to right off the bat – he’ll have to think of something special, maybe Randy will let Punk fuck him. He sees it all in his head, Randy’s knee hooked over his shoulder, eyes heavy, mouth red and wet, sweat glittering at his throat, chest heaving - ‘Okay go slow, go, go-’

And he doesn’t need to be told twice, Randy pushes Punk’s hips down and moves back just a little and it makes Punk tense all the way up again, clenching his teeth together to stop himself from whining. Randy waits a little then pushes forward again and keeps going just like that, slow long thrusts that make Punk’s eyes slide shut and his mouth fall open and his body feel like its melting. He reaches around and grips Punk’s cock, starts stroking in time with the movement of their bodies and Punk’s fingers tense like they want to dig right into the car’s hood just to have something to hold on to and Randy leans down over him and murmurs ‘watch the fucking paintwork-’ and Punk breathes a laugh, pushes his ass back against Randy to remind him can do whatever he wants-

Randy slams his hips as a reply and a moan rips out of Punk and after it comes a string of words that Punk can’t really believe he’s saying so loudly – ‘Mhhmm- fuck, like that just like-’ and then he’s getting flat-out pounded against the car, Randy’s hand still tight on him jerking his wrist, breathing fast and Punk forgets how to speak completely.

The realisation that they’re really doing this, that he’s really getting screwed up against his boyfriend’s $200,000 sports car hits him and if he wasn’t so close to coming already maybe he’d laugh but and all he can think is what this must be doing to Randy because the sounds he’s making are worth it alone; barely bitten-back moans and rushed breaths - maybe he has a serious fetish for fast dangerous things.

Randy’s left hand is clamped on Punk’s waist iron tight and he’s rolling and snapping his hips so hard their skin slaps together filthily. Punk’s breath fogs on the cold aluminium pressed up against his cheek and every time a strained, grated sound escapes his mouth it clouds across the black, hot and wet. He braces his hands and arches his back just a little, moves until Randy gets as deep as he can and then he just rides it, feels the tightness start coiling in his stomach, Randy’s hand on his dick sending jolts all through his body.

‘C’mon, harder-’ Randy gets a hand in Punk’s hair and pulls his head back, bends over him and thrusts so deep Punk’s eyes can’t even focus and that’s all it takes and he’s coming in hot quick bursts over Randy’s fist, mouth open, breath caught in his throat.

Randy holds him there as he tries to stop his knees from buckling, pushes his face against the nape of Punk’s neck and breathes a rough _oh my god, fuck_ into his ear before he pulls out and comes against the back of Punk’s thigh, hot and fast and heavy.

Just the sounds of their breathing and the rain outside for ten whole seconds and Punk feels a smile wash over his face. Randy leans his forehead between Punk’s shoulder blades and Punk can feel the warmth of his breath even through the t-shirt and hoodie he’s wearing; feels Randy give a laugh that sounds like a sigh.

‘Holy shit.’

‘Yeah,’

Randy heaves himself up, buckles his belt and Punk straightens, little clicks coming from his back. He feels Randy scraping at the back of his leg with his finger and turns in time to see him wiping it unceremoniously on his jeans. ‘You’re disgusting.’

‘Fuck you, what am I supposed to do,’ A smirk curves his mouth.

‘I’m taking you straight to the shower when we get back.’ Punk comes in close, pulling up his zipper and readjusting himself.

‘That a promise?’ Randy’s smiling like an idiot and Punk thinks maybe he’s the most perfect thing he’s ever seen. He scrubs a hand through his hair, all soft from the rain and presses his mouth to Randy’s, slow and gentle, not meaning it to feel like a thank you but it comes out like that anyway.

‘Yeah, it sure is.’

‘Alright then,’ Randy nudges Punk’s jaw with his own. 'Better get out of here before someone checks the CCTV,' and starts around to the car again, a look on his face like he's joking but maybe he isn't, hand on the passenger door. Punk shakes his head, incredulous.

‘You can at least drive from here, I just let you fuck me in a parking lot. I can barely walk.’

‘ _Let_ me? You practically _begged_ me.’

‘Wow, I won’t make that mistake again,’ Punk opens the drivers door and scrambles in on weak legs.

‘You should, its pretty hot.’

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I spread my smutty wings and here we are. Thank god for reunions huh


	21. Thunder

‘Arms up.’

Punk rolls his eyes and raises his hands up over his head as Randy peels his rain-soaked t-shirt off and lets it drop with a wet slap onto the tiles even after Punk insisted he could do it himself. Steam rolls from the shower and clouds the room, mists the mirrors. Randy’s standing there barefoot in just his jeans with his belt hanging undone, dark grey boxers tight as skin hugging the dents at his hips. All sloping muscles and a little concerned crease in his brow.

‘This is looks bad. You should’a said.’ He’s touching Punk’s shoulder, swollen and tender.

‘It’s fine. It barely hurts anymore.’

Randy takes Punk’s other hand, turns him slow on the spot. Punk can feel hard blue eyes drifting over the bruises and grazes littered across his back and ribs.

‘Punk.’

‘I said its fine.’

He lies to stop Randy blaming himself but knows he always will.

Randy faces him again, tugs him forward, perches on the edge of the bathtub and pulls Punk in between his legs. He pushes his mouth softly to the inked skin around Punk’s collarbone, kisses at it with a tenderness that makes him hurt a little.

‘I’m gonna find who did this, okay?’ Randy’s talking quietly, maybe more to himself than to Punk, lips against skin, warm breath and the scratch of three day stubble. ‘I’m gonna find them and I’m going to tear them apart.’

Punk swallows and strokes his hand down Randy’s neck to the hard slope of his shoulder, grips it a little like the words made him weak. He thinks he’ll just live the rest of his life like this, in a constant confusing state somewhere between gratitude and disbelief that this is how they ended up.

‘They hurt you.’

‘I guess they gave it their best shot.’

‘They hurt you because they knew I’d gone and I wasn’t there to help you.’

‘It isn’t your fault.’

Punk doesn’t know how many more times they’ll have to do this. Gentle touches and sorry’s whispered into broken skin. Maybe it was too much to ask that they could ever not be hurting one way or another.

‘Tell me you at least got a shot in, just tell me one of them is walking around with a messed up face.’

‘How’s some broken ribs and a busted larynx for you?’

‘That’s my boy.’

Punk manages a half smile that Randy doesn’t see.

‘I’d break them in half just for looking at you the wrong way.’

‘How’d I get so lucky huh?’

Randy laughs quiet against him. ‘Beats me.’

‘I missed you.’

‘I know.’

Punk sweeps his thumb along Randy’s jaw to the hollow below his ear, gets the weird urge to just hold his face, touch it and kiss it and make sure it’s real for the thousandth time – he doesn’t even know when he became the type of person to have thoughts like those – and Randy is breathing against his chest, eyes closed, palms resting warm and firm on Punk’s sides.

Punk feels it like an apology, the way the heat from Randy’s hands sinks slow and steady into his skin and keeps him there. An apology for Randy being the way he is, for making Punk the same. For fucking instead of talking because neither of them know how to control themselves, and the words they need to say somehow always come later, like an afterthought. Like they’re not important. As if the quiet is making up for all the loud messy noise, like it means more, like it proves they can just _be_ together. Of all the couples in the world Punk thinks they probably have an alarming number of issues to talk about and neither of them know how to form sentences until they’ve been naked, sweating, cursing and moaning, even after all this time. Like it somehow breaks down a barrier between them. And Randy’s touch is a sorry, and Punk’s stillness is acknowledgement that he’s just as bad and he doesn’t care if they never change.

*

The lights were low and the TV was quiet. They’d had this conversation three times before and this time it was different. This time they’d sat down and thought; barely spoken for two hours. It felt final.

‘I just think we should do something about this right now. Vince bugged my fucking phone, how far is this going to go? Pass the rice.’ Punk obliges, a mouth full of noodles, head full of misgivings. After-sex Chinese food has apparently become a tradition. ‘I mean, that’s some weird shit. What good can possibly come of doing something like that? They wanna keep an eye on us, sure, but why? They know we’re together, we’re still doing what we came here to do, far as anyone else knows.’

‘We were never part of the plan.’ Punk mutters. ‘I was never meant to like you. I don’t like anyone. This-’ he swings his chopsticks between them ‘was never meant to happen.’

‘But it did. And so what? Everything could easily be going just as Vince wanted it but he’s butting in places he shouldn’t be. For no reason?’

‘You were the best guy he had, right? He trusts you, always has since day one, even though he’s been more than a dick to you, he thinks of himself as a kind of father figure. That’s probably got something to do with keeping you away from your real family. He loses you, he loses business, and business is everything.’

Randy looks away like he’s trying to piece it together but it doesn’t fit right. But light bulbs are going off in Punk’s head, ding ding ding, one after another.

‘So, say he asks you to find a fighter, under the pretence he’s getting revenge, retribution on the guys who apparently ruined your life, put you in hospital, all of it. He sends you to Miami, what are the odds? He sends you to the clubs in my area, where, I don’t mind saying, the only name worth anything is mine.’

‘You think this whole thing was fixed?’

‘I think he knew you’d bring me back with you. Maybe he was even counting on it.’ Punk finds a twisted smile from somewhere. ‘He didn’t want us to get along; he wanted us to do our jobs. Find me a guy with no conscience, no personal qualities. Just make sure he can fight. This whole thing rests on me not knowing about your past, it relies on me not giving a shit about you. And I don’t know if you noticed but I don’t tend to give a shit about anyone or anything, including myself. You’re one hell of an anomaly.’

‘Thanks.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘So he got pissed when he found out you were staying here. Scared, maybe.’

‘Right. His receptionist saw us at that club. I kissed you because, okay, you’re fucking beautiful and I couldn’t help myself and she saw.’ Punk shrugs. ‘She blabbed.’ He takes a mouthful of spring roll, chomps it down. ‘So now not only are we living together but we’re fucking, and Cody knows too. Its been going on a while but we’re winning every match we go to so Vince can’t do anything without taking away his main income. Odds are you told me the ‘real’ reason I’m here by now so Vince is on damage control. Trying to scare us, make us feel powerless. He tells you there’s a big match I need to win, hundreds of thousands for the taking, and after I win he’ll let you go home because the debt is repaid. A happy ending. I don’t know about you but I haven’t heard shit about any matches like that.’

‘It doesn’t exist.’

Punk shrugs again like its speculation but he’s sure. He tries not to make a habit out of being wrong. ‘It’s a balancing act. See which side gives out first. Us or them, and in the meantime all the money is going straight into Vince’s pocket.’

‘He’s just trying to keep us here as long as possible.’

‘Ties up nice doesn’t it.’

‘The bow on top is Tom.’ Randy shakes his head, like he was stupid not to see it.

‘He thinks he’s real smart. The dumb ones always do.’

‘So he’s trying to put you out of action, slow you down, maybe even get rid of you for good, just to keep the whole thing going a little longer?’

‘He wanted me gone, made it pretty clear right before his lapdogs kicked the shit out of me.’

Randy makes a face.

‘Sorry. Maybe its like inside trading. He’s the third part of the balancing act. He’s getting paid at both ends but ultimately he’ll jump ship the second it looks like Vince is going down.’

‘We need to take him out.’

‘It’ll be my pleasure.’

Randy nods, resigned, but his eyes are focused. ‘We should put Vince down. Its time.’

‘You make that sound very casual.’

‘I don’t mean murder him, Jesus. I just.’ Randy takes a second and digs around in his takeaway box with chopsticks. ‘I mean get rid of him and this fucking empire of his. Stop all this shit - the fights, the money, the deals. Everything. It’s getting way out of hand. Its poison.’

Punk thinks about Danny back in Miami, remembers how he’d always have side-jobs on, how he’d wait for Punk to be almost at the door, casually flick the ash from his cigarette and clear his throat - _hey, you lookin’ for a bit of extra cash?_ Punk would flip him the finger and let the door bang shut on his way out.

‘You talk like we were never a willing part of it.’

‘I didn’t love fighting. I don’t think you do either. We’re just good at it.’

Punk always thought fighting had given him life and purpose but now he didn’t know if that was ever true. But if he was going to talk about truth, he didn’t give a single shit what happened in those underground clubs and boxing rings the second he stepped out of them, until a few months ago. Until he met Randy and fell for him like the earth under his feet had just vanished. But he was still willing to put up or shut up. Punk didn’t know if there was a specific tipping point that made all this seem insane, made playing by Vince’s rules sound like the dumbest most dangerous thing in the world. But in the beginning Punk made a promise to Randy, back when it all seemed easy. Back when everything was black and white and the word _soul-mates_ wasn’t involved. Maybe Randy had changed him, maybe he hadn’t. Maybe he changed all by himself but now it felt different. It felt wrong. Like they were outside looking in, seeing everything for the first time.

Punk didn’t want to think that it was because he had a chance at a real family now. He never pictured himself with kids and that remained; he felt like the wrong kind of person to bring up children just like he was the wrong kind of person to perform brain surgery. The world had made him dark and tough and Randy was enough all on his own. He could go halfway round the world and still love Punk just the same when he came back. Maybe even more. Punk didn’t want to think any of that at all because it was terrifying but it barged its way into his head and shouted _you’ve got too much to lose. You came here with nothing and now you’ve got it all. This is as good as it gets. Don’t fuck it up._

All that time ago, Randy sitting on the bench in his locker room trying to make him get on that plane. _‘You sick of your life? Because you fuckin’ look like it. You want out? You won’t get another chance like this. Ever.’_

Punk puts his box of cold food down and stares across at Randy. ‘I said I’d do this for you. I said I’d win these fights and get you back to your parents. Maybe things have changed, maybe we’re getting screwed from every angle and I’m sick of saying it but you seem to always forget. You’re all I’ve got and I’m not about to risk it all. Vince gets wind of this he’s going to clam up, maybe disappear. That was the whole point of this, right? To get him to talk?’

Randy swallows and his eyes are warm, his gaze hard. Rain beats heavy and constant against the windows like the weather doesn’t know any other way to be.

‘If what we figured out is true, if this is all some fabricated heap of bullshit, Vince could very well be lying out of his ass about knowing anything at all.’ Randy’s mouth is turned down at one side as if it just seems like too much bad luck to ever be real.

‘I’m more than happy to spend some quality time finding out.’ Punk cracks his knuckles for theatrics and it gets a smile out of Randy, half-assed and quickly fading, but better than nothing.

‘I’ll still love you if it doesn’t work out. No matter what.’

‘I won’t forgive myself if I mess this up.’

Randy slides his hand over the counter top and touches his fingers to Punk’s wrist. ‘I will. Don’t be dumb. You can’t blame yourself for everything that goes bad. I know I’m a hypocritical asshole for saying that to you and that’s basically how we both live our entire lives but its not gonna fly anymore, okay? We’ll do it right. We’ll be careful.’

‘I just don’t want it to all be for nothing, you know?’

‘I met you, didn’t I? That’s not nothing.’

Punk shakes his head and looks away. It wasn’t nothing. It was everything. He was the one who was nothing. ‘I hope you won’t change your mind.’

‘Scout’s honour.’

‘Fuck if you were ever a scout.’

Randy leans across and holds Punk’s face, one hand under his jaw and pushes their mouths together with another pressed smile. He tastes of soy and cucumber.

‘I had the uniform and everything.’

‘Shut _up_.’

Punk lets himself drift for a few seconds, the smell of soap and Randy’s aftershave lingering around him in the air. Then he blinks and something in his chest twinges because he knows he’s fucked. Totally and completely, no take-backs, as if he didn’t notice before. He wants to put it in words but Randy’s looking at him like he knows because he feels it too.

‘If we’re going to do this, we gotta do it one hundred per cent. All those crooked fucking assholes that feed on guys like you and me, Cody, everyone. Get them all in one place and take them out.’

‘I trust you.’

Punk makes himself nod. Takes Randy’s hand and twines their fingers together. ‘We got this, okay. We made something out of it and I’m going to try my goddamn hardest to do good by my promise.’

‘I don’t deserve you.’

‘That’s horseshit.’ Punk leans over the empty boxes of food and meets Randy’s mouth again slow and soft. ‘And you know it.’

The feeling in his chest makes it hard to breathe.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think its been about six years since I updated this. I wanted a way of telling everyone I was still writing (just very very slowly) but instead I pulled my head out of my ass and got down to it.   
> Anyhoo, if you want to talk to me about anything, badger me for updates, give me prompts, complain or just smash your keyboard at me because we're close to the end now, my tumblr URL is fuckwrestling x


	22. All I Want

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been almost an entire year. I had some stuff written a few months ago but my laptop died and I lost everything. It's taken me this long to write new stuff and I'm really sorry!   
> Your reward for sticking around is some instense fluff and a nice gentle chapter before things get wild again. I'm not ready to say goodbye to this yet.
> 
> In other news, I have a fic only tumblr now. justpicturemedrowning so hmu if you want to talk or enquire about updates, give me prompts, literally anything! (please please someone talk to me :))))
> 
> Enjoy!

Randy had been quiet the whole evening. Making himself busy, moving things around, tidying, pretending. Punk watched him for a while until he opened his mouth to tell him to sit the hell down and Randy muttered something about taking another shower.

He avoided Punk’s eyes as he shuffled past and the bathroom door slammed a little harder than usual. Maybe he was angry, maybe he had a right to be. Maybe he just needed to cool off, do some more thinking. Punk waited up for him, staring at the TV and tapping his fingers against his thigh, planning his words, fighting through the mess of ideas and problems that clamoured in his head tangled and demanding. Two hours later Randy hadn’t emerged. Punk found him asleep in their room, his back to the door with the sheets pulled up to his chest and felt something wrap tight around his throat. For a few moments he’d wanted to slip into the covers, press himself to Randy’s sleep-warm skin and ease the choking sensation crawling into his heart. But something was telling him to keep his distance. Something cold and heavy that sunk through him to his spine and numbed him.

So instead Punk stayed awake, sat in front of the window curled in a chair so tight his legs were dead in ten minutes. He listened to the sound of sirens and life in the city below and promised himself he wouldn’t do anything stupid. But he wanted to, desperately. Something valiant and reckless and inexcusable and dangerous. He wanted to fight; he wanted to fix everything in his own violent and stubborn way. For once in his life the only thing stopping him was the fact that someone else cared about him now. He was responsible for someone’s feelings, in regards to his own safety. It was a foreign concept but Punk was vaguely aware that that was how relationships were supposed to work and if he didn’t love Randy things would be different. Maybe he would be rich, maybe he would be dead. Maybe somewhere in between. But he wouldn't be hanging in this do-nothing limbo.

The sky was lightening above the clouds, patches of it crystal blue and promising amongst all the black when Punk’s eyes finally slid shut, his head tipped back and he fell into a light comfortless sleep.

The sun is hot on his skin, burning him through his clothes. The door to his motel room is jammed shut and he can hear sounds from within. Frantic, animal-like shouts. Skin hitting skin, something smashing against the wall, paper thin and crumbling. The crystal crash of breaking glass.

_Randy?_

_Punk? H-elp, Punk, I-_

The door is heavy and impossibly solid under his hands and when he shoves his shoulder against it pain shoots through him, sharp and blinding-

_Randy!_

He smells burning and spice and men’s aftershave on the air, the heat of Miami engulfs him, clouds his head and the sudden crack of gunshots rips through him – fast and loud and final.

‘Punk?’

His throat is clenching, squeezing shut, and his lungs are full of smoke and acrid scents. The concrete burns his hands as he falls down; a hundred degrees and cockroaches scuttle fast and shining over his fingers .

‘Punk!’

He presses his cheek to the searing slabs and watches blood slide under the door, red and dark and glistening and it starts to bubble in the heat, frying, turning thick and Punk can’t breathe, something with too many legs crawls into his mouth, its hard shell sticking in his gullet –

‘- _Punk!’_

He wakes up too fast for his brain and blinks in the bright sunshine as dizziness spirals around him. He’s grabbing at his throat, sucking in air, shuffling back and back-

Randy on his knees before him leaning forward anxiously, reaching his hand to Punk’s shoulder and Punk’s heart is slamming against his ribs so fast he feels it in the soles of his feet.

‘It’s okay, you’re okay, it was a dream. Just another dream,’ Randy’s voice so deep and smooth its almost tangible and Punk is still in Miami with white hot grit pressing into his palms and the smell of gunpowder in his nose until Randy touches him, lightly at first and then firm, his fingers pressing insistently into the meat of Punk’s arm. ‘You’re here, you’re okay. Take a breath.’

Punk clears his throat and stares around. He’d fallen to the floor in his sleep and the early morning sun is glaring over the tops of buildings and in through the windows at them. He must have been out for a little less than an hour. His shoulder feels like it’s broken, fizzing with pain up and down his arm, all over his back.

‘I-’ his throat is raw and tight and his pulse is throbbing uncomfortably in his neck. ‘You were dead. Again.’ Randy swallows audibly.

‘Look at me.’ And Punk does. Falls deep into that familiar gaze and feels reality piecing itself back together bit by bit and he is filled with the sensation of coming back down to earth, hard. ‘You’re okay. I’m here.’

Punk takes a deep breath, exhales slowly. Lets the anxiety flow through and out of him gradually, sucking the strength from his body as it goes. He slumps back against the chair and fights the urge to be sick. ‘Fuck. Sorry…Fuck.’

‘’S okay.’

Punk flexes his arm and winces at the tightness. Rubs at his face, presses his fingers gently against his closed eyes and tries to shake the dream but it clings to him, loud and bright and so real.

‘Jesus. That was…’

‘Probably just a stress reflex. You’re okay.’ Randy says again. Punk can feel him staring. ‘Just breathe. It’ll go.’

Punk lets out a groan and looks up at the ceiling, willing himself to get his shit together.

‘I think I fell on my shoulder. Hurts like a fuckin’ bitch.’ Randy stays silent and Punk can’t look at him. ‘God I’m a disaster.’

‘Alright, alright. That’s enough.’ Randy gets to his feet and when Punk finally looks up he’s holding his hand outstretched. The winter sun turns his tanned skin gold, picks up the fair hairs on his arms and casts shadows in the dips of his muscle. No shirt, bare feet and sweat pants; this is how Punk has come to love him. Relaxed, so fluid and calm and somehow still unflawed. This is how he imagines their life. Mornings full of light and bare skin and quiet voices. Not cracked through with nightmares and broken bones and unease.

‘Come on. I’m taking you to bed. It’s still early.’

Punk grabs Randy’s hand and levers himself up with his good arm, legs shaking, head spinning. Randy leads him to their room and helps him down onto the edge of the mattress and for a second the smell of the sheets dusted with Randy’s cologne and his own, the familiarity of it makes his heart twinge. He sinks down and hangs his head, staring dumbly at his feet. Stretches out his neck, slumped and tender and feeling fucking pathetic.

‘You really are one sorry motherfucker, huh.’

The bed dips as Randy moves in behind him, kneeling first and then sinking in closer, his legs draping either side of Punk’s hips. He presses his mouth gently to the mound of bone at the top of Punk’s spine, then up to the nape of his neck. Not quite kissing, just small touches as his hands slide up Punk’s still sore ribs, hot and huge and comforting. Punk lets out a little satisfied groan, lets his eyes fall shut.

‘I hate to sound like a self-pitying asshole but I fuckin’ feel like shit.’ He murmurs.

‘Just relax. You’re burnt out. Let me look after you okay?’ Randy’s voice behind his ear, breath close and smelling faintly of mint, teasing a vaguely pleasing shiver out of Punk.

‘Mm, you’re good at making me feel better.’

‘And I’m not even trying that hard.’ Randy teases, his mouth against the top of Punk’s shoulder blade, stubble scratching as he speaks. His hands span widely over Punk’s hips and back up, thumbs pressing into the muscle either side of his spine. They’re quiet for a while; Punk relaxing into Randy’s touch; the worry and fear swirling in his gut slowly melting away leaving him fragile and drained.

‘You didn’t come to bed last night.’

‘I didn’t think you wanted me to.’

‘Sorry. I feel like a dick.’

‘Hey, no one’s perfect.’

‘Mmmh, you come pretty close,’ Randy speaks up against his skin, lips brushing it softly and Punk feels it so intimately as if Randy is inside his head, in his blood, two hearts beating steadily in his chest. He leans back a little, rests his head against Randy’s bare shoulder and looks up.

‘I dunno, there’s this guy I know. He’s gotta be a straight ten. Tall with these tattoos, so handsome it makes you sick if you look at him too long. One of those, you know?’

Randy presses a kiss with a smirking mouth against his ear. ‘You should introduce us.’

‘Nah, I don’t think you’d get along.’ Punk smiles and it feels good, sincere and light. He twists and bumps his jaw against Randy’s, kisses him softly. Disregards the complaint from his wrecked body and settles into it, lets Randy run a hand almost possessively up his neck, hears a low laugh against his own lips. Suddenly he feels so overcome with affection it stings, right in the core of him like a physical shock.

Randy leans back and pulls Punk with him and Punk actually manages to laugh too through the stab of pain that seems to bounce endlessly from his shoulder to his ribs and back again. Randy hauls Punk on top of him, still smiling and takes all of his weight, mouth and hands warm and inviting. This is where they belong. Not arguing the details of their grim shitty situation, not planning for the worst, not keeping their backs to the wall every second _just in case_ – they belong in each other’s arms, letting go, living. Punk breaks slowly away, his sleepy gaze dragging over Randy’s face. Light streams in through the half-closed blinds, ignites the blue and green in his eyes so bright they’re almost clear and god damn, he knows it’s a cliché but they’re like summer sun bursting crystals of light through shallow ocean water, aqua, impossible and gorgeous and Punk laughs a little as he thinks it and has to kiss Randy again because he’s insufferable. Randy kisses him softly, slowly, like he wants more but knows better.

‘Why’re you looking at me like that,’ he huffs, leaning back, letting his head hit the mattress and staring up at Punk looking so charmed, fingers playing lightly through his hair.

‘Because I fucking love you, idiot.’ Punk rolls awkwardly onto his side, winces when his shoulder cramps and barely manages not to whine out loud.

‘You need to rest. Think you can sleep? I’ll be right here.’ Randy says quietly.

Punk inhales deeply. His nerves are thrumming in his body, but he feels exhausted. Weighed down by the monotony of hurting.

‘Yeah. I could try.’

Randy kneels and pulls the sheets back, punches some pillows into shape and waits with a slightly amused smirk on his face as Punk moves slowly into the bed. He crawls up Punk’s body, kisses him lightly on the forehead and begins to remove most of his clothes in such a tender way that Punk feels the urge to kick a wall or hit someone to get his head straight.

He sinks down into the mattress and stretches out, ignoring the protesting creak from his back. Randy settles in next to him facing away from the windows and Punk has to squint against the light to see him.

‘Better?’

‘Yeah, better.’

‘I’m serious, I’m gonna look after you, alright? I know I haven’t had your back the last couple’a days but. I can’t stand this. I’ll do anything to make you feel good again.’

‘Randy, you don’t have to-’

‘Would you do the same for me, if it was the other way around?’

Punk swallows thickly, knows he’s beat.

‘Yeah, of course.’

‘Okay then.’

‘I can’t wait to take you home.’ It comes into Punk’s head and takes a shortcut to his mouth rather than his brain but as soon as he’s said it Randy’s face changes. Switches with such ease from anxious to peaceful that Punk thinks sometimes he’s not really human underneath, he’s just wires and metal and gears because how someone could ride and follow his ups and downs and all his bullshit so seamlessly should be impossible.

‘Our house could be right on the beach. I’ll make you coffee every fucking morning and we can do tai chi or whatever the fuck its called on the sand. And you’ll get so tan your tattoos will fade and we’ll stay there ‘til we get old, we’ll get fuckin’ wrinkly and faded together.’

‘Close your eyes.’

Punk does as he’s told and feels Randy’s hand brushing lightly over his chest to his stomach, fingertips first and then the smooth satisfying weight of his palm.

‘If you make me coffee every morning for a _week_ , I’ll eat my goddamn arm.’ The laugh in Randy’s voice brings a small smile to Punk’s face and he sighs contentedly.

‘Yeah, yeah okay maybe you can make your own.’

‘Sounds perfect. I know we’ll be okay one day.’

‘Gotta keep on pushin, right?’ His voice is getting heavy and his sore, wired muscles begin to finally relax.

‘Right.’

Randy presses a kiss to his shoulder and sinks into the pillows next to Punk, arm resting lightly across his hips.

‘I’ll be here when you wake up.’

‘You’re too good to me.’ Punk mutters, feeling foggy. ‘I’ve always thought that.’

If Randy says anything back, Punk doesn't hear it before he falls asleep.

 

 

 

 


	23. R&R

Punk wakes with his body pressed right up against Randy’s. They haven’t moved at all. Heat trapped between them warms his face as he pushes the cover back a little; still not ready to open his eyes. Everything is soft and dense and Punk feels truly peaceful, present. Randy makes a quiet protesting groan that peters out into a sigh and he moves against Punk, hand curling on Punk’s hipbone, thigh thrown comfortingly over Punk’s, weighing him down.

‘Mmmppff. You sleep?’ he murmurs, pressing his face into the crook of Punk’s neck. Punk slowly cracks an eye open and filtered afternoon light fills the room, a weak low sun glinting from the mirror opposite the bed, casting shards of brightness on the ceiling.

‘Yeah. Heavy.’

‘Mmm me too. Feeling okay?’

‘Yeah. I think so.’ Punk stretches, kicks his feet out and arches his back, gets his arms up a little before pain shoots dully through him again.

‘Fffuck. Ugh.’ He flops back down and Randy settles against him again, closer this time and Punk doesn’t miss the small slow catch of his hips or the blunt pressure against his leg.

‘That a pistol in your pocket or are-’

Randy cuts him off with a quiet laugh and grinds himself pointedly against Punk. He makes another little noise, a bottomed-out groan, half teasing, half real. ‘Wanna take a look?’

‘Might put my fuckin’ back out.’

‘If you weren’t all banged up I’d be all over you,’ Randy’s mouth is so close to Punk’s throat and his breath, damp and warm makes Punk’s stomach tighten.

‘Feels kind like you were all over me yesterday, and I was all over your car. Remember that?’

‘For the rest of my life.’

Randy is kissing lazily under Punk’s jaw and they’re still half asleep and it makes Punk smile. ‘I want you all over me. Always.’

‘Mmm. How would you feel about it…the other way around?’

Punk’s eyes flick open all the way and a blush creeps up to his cheeks. ‘Meaning..?’

‘C’mon don’t make me beg. I wanna know what it feels like. What you feel like. The sounds you make…makes it seem like I’m missing out.’

And that coincidentally goes straight to his dick. He bites down on his lip. ‘ _Fuck_ ing- Randy,’

‘Does that mean yes?’

Punk twists his neck awkwardly and Randy is smirking up at him, one arm tightening around his waist.

‘There’s no one I’d rather be balls deep in.’

‘Jesus _christ_ ,’ Randy laughs and buries his face in Punk’s shoulder. There’s a fire in his gut, licking heat inside his ribs, waking him up.

‘But you’ll have to wait until I’m all better.’ Punk says with another slow stretch. He hooks his thigh in between Randy’s and watches his jaw clench with a sweet buzz of satisfaction. ‘Wouldn’t wanna disappoint you. After you’ve done such a good job of fucking me recently.’

‘Oh my god, okay that’s about all I can take.’ Randy groans loudly and shoves himself upright, tangled in Punk’s legs and blinking groggily. Punk watches as he gets up and ambles to the bathroom, sweatpants sliding low, adjusting himself as he goes. ‘Get your sweet ass up, there’s someone I want you to meet.’

*

It must have rained while they were sleeping because the streets are wet when they step outside the apartment twenty minutes later. Punk’s hair is damp from a shower and the air is like freezing fingers on his scalp. He pulls his coat tighter around himself as they walk to the garage, heads ducked against the breeze. Seeing a chip of paint missing on Randy’s car where his belt hit it yesterday brings a smile to his mouth and when Randy asks what’s up, he can’t bring himself to say.

‘So, what joys will today bring?’ Inside with the heating on full and Punk relaxes into the seat, feels the snarl of the engine buzz up through his feet as Randy pulls out of the space.

‘It’s a surprise.’

‘You’re kidding me. I hate surprises.’

‘Everyone says that until its cake and gifts.’

‘Is it cake and gifts?’

‘No.’

‘Jesus I should’ve stayed in bed. I like you better half-clothed and sleepy. Less demanding.’

‘Quit whining, its for your own good. Just wait and see.’

Punk rolls his eyes and slinks down in his seat and watches as they take the familiar route to the gym. They pull up outside and Punk looks across at Randy with his eyebrows raised.

‘Are you lost?’

Randy kills the engine. ‘Just get out.’

They duck inside as rain starts to fall again, fat cold drops that splatter noisily on the windows. Punk follows Randy round the back to the sparring area dusting water from his hair, nodding to a few guys grappling in the cage, some familiar faces in the rings raising their hands as they pass. The smell of the place settles something in Punk and a small degree of normalcy starts to return. The clink of metal, the thump of the mats, he could almost forget all the shit they’d been through since he was here last. If a few days already felt like a lifetime to him, and he knew it would be an eternity until he could train again.

They pass the workout areas, weight room and lockers, and stop outside a door with a sign reading ‘Physio’ on it.

‘Tell me you’re joking?’ 

Randy holds up his hands and backs away a little, smiling. ‘I told you I was gonna look after you, I told you its for your own good.’

‘Here I was, thinking you were taking me somewhere fun and exciting, holy shit.’

‘It’s not that bad.’

‘You brought me to _therapy_?’

Randy’s turn to roll his eyes. ‘Just go. Please? Don’t you wanna fight again?’

Punk sighs. Randy will just have to owe him, and that’s a position he doesn’t mind being in. ‘When you said you wanted to make me feel good, this is not what I had in mind.’ He mutters begrudgingly.

‘I know you hate the thought of someone else helping you but try it. Just for one hour. For me.’

‘You’re so lucky I’m in to you.’

Randy pats him on the ass. ‘Be good. I’ll be back to pick you up later.’

‘Places to go huh,’

‘And people to see.’

Punk nods reluctantly. ‘Anyone interesting?’

‘I have to drop in on Cody, fill him in on everything, give him his cell back.’

Punk has the distinct feeling that Randy just wants him out of the way, and he pushes it to the back of his mind. Maybe he needs this, maybe Randy is right. Though he’s never had any kind of medical attention for a fighting injury before, he can hardly say he’s at the top of his game. Everything hurts and only gets worse the more he thinks about it.

‘Alright then. I’m expecting great things.’

‘Don’t give her a hard time, okay? Just let her do her job, she worked miracles on my shoulder.’

‘Pinky promise.’

‘And Punk?’ Randy’s voice softens. ‘Tell her about your dreams. She might be able to help.’

Punk swallows. That’s a can of worms he never wants to open again but Randy’s giving him an appreciative look he can’t refuse.

‘Okay.’

‘See you later, handsome.’

‘Get outta here, god damn sweet-talker.’

Randy leaves him standing there alone, fighting the urge to bail and find a coffee shop to hide in for an hour, but knows himself well enough to accept he’s just being a stubborn asshole. He knocks on the door and hears a woman’s voice.

‘Come on in,’

The room isn’t large but it’s bright and filled with anatomy posters and houseplants. Punk’s slightly alarmed by the sheer number of crystals collected on a shelf to his left but he goes in anyway, closes the door quietly behind him. The woman is pretty, long copper-coloured hair and a sharp but neat-featured face. She holds out her hand.

‘Lisa. Pleased to meet you.’

Punk shakes it, feels rough skin on her palms and guesses she works out. He starts to like her a little more.

‘Hi.’

‘Take a seat.’

Punk sits uneasily and wonders if Randy will reward him if he gets through this without offending someone.

‘So, Randy tells me you had a little bust up.’

‘Uh, yeah, you could say that.’

‘Its alright, I don’t know the details, I don’t really care actually, but you don’t have to worry. I know you guys get up to all sorts of shady stuff. You don’t have to tell me anything. 

‘I, uh, okay.’

‘So, exactly what happened?’

It takes Punk a second to realise she’s messing with him, and he’s struck by how weird it feels to be talking to someone who isn’t trying to hurt him, or isn’t Randy.

‘I dislocated my shoulder. And I put it back in by myself. My ribs feel kinda fucked up. That’s about it.’

‘You know that’s probably the worst thing you could have done, your shoulder? How long have you been like this?’

‘Uh, nearly three days.’

‘Jesus. Okay. I can see I have my work cut out with you.’

She continues to scold him for at least forty minutes about the damage he could have done to himself and the risk of a repeat injury before insisting he wears a sling for the next three weeks. Knowing there’s no way he’ll do it, he nods and says ‘yes’ at the right times and acts like he’s learned his lesson. She tests his range of movement, which is practically zero, and gives him a box of ice packs from the gym storeroom. She checks his ribs, asking him in a disinterested voice about his tattoos after he removes his shirt. No breaks, just bruising and Punk feels slightly relieved. Then she offers him anti-inflammatory medication and he declines.

‘You know, its okay to accept help.’

Punk grimaces uncomfortably as he pulls his shirt on with one arm, struggles to look her in the eye. ‘It’s not- I don’t usually-’

‘Randy told me you’d be like this. Look, take the pills. Stop wallowing. Get on with your life. Things I’ve heard around here about you…seems you’re kind of a big deal.’

‘I’m not a big deal to anyone.’

‘You want to get back in that ring and earn your living?’

‘Of course, yeah-’

‘Alright then. So we’re clear.’

Punk rubs a hand over his face and goes back to his chair in defeat. ‘Yeah. I guess we are.’

‘If I see you in here even _looking_ at gym equipment within the next month, I’ll give you an injury you’ll need a qualified professional to deal with.’

‘Wait, you’re not-?’

‘Relax, I’m kidding. Seriously though. No strenuous movements at all which includes running, anything with weights, compound exercises or otherwise and, you know, sex.’

Punk chokes on nothing and blinks at her. ‘What?’

‘Take it easy lover boy; you two can get back to it in no time. If you do what I told you, obviously. Your ribs need time to heal, okay?’

He’s slightly too stunned to think of anything to say so she takes the opportunity to make sure he has everything he needs and packs it all into a bag for him. Then she makes him stand up and lean against the examination table so she can tie his arm up in a sling.

Punk’s still reeling from the thought of no sex for a month when she asks ‘Was there anything else?’

He clears his throat and looks around, anywhere but her face.

‘I can’t sleep.’

He sees her nod out of the corner of his eye as he gazes at nothing in the middle of the room. ‘For as long as I can remember, I haven’t been able to sleep like everyone else. And now, recently I’ve started having these dreams…’

‘Night terrors?’

‘I don’t know, maybe. I know they don’t mean anything but they’re getting inside my head and sometimes I don’t want to sleep, even if I could.’ He doesn’t know where it’s coming from, these words he’s never spoken to anyone but Randy, but it feels good and cathartic to get it out. 'My head's a mess when I wake up. Panic attacks or whatever.'

‘If you want, I can give you something for that? Just to make you sleep a little deeper, get you out of those light cycles.’

The thought of not being exhausted is too tempting to ignore. ‘Yeah, yeah I guess I could try.’

‘Alright, good. Let me know if you need any more before our next appointment, okay? I’ll put my number in here,’ she drops a card and another packet of pills from the cupboard beside her desk into the bag and looks up at Punk with a warm smile. ‘See, time’s up. Wasn’t so bad, was it?' 

Punk manages a smile. ‘I’ve had worse.’

‘Take care, and try to remember at least half of what I told you.’

He gets up and doesn’t even try to put his coat back on in front of her with only one arm. ‘Thanks.’ He manages, bustling out of the room with his stuff banging clumsily into a cactus as he leaves.

Back outside Randy is leaning against the wall waiting for him, an expectant smile on his face. The front of his shirt is damp from the rain and he smells of the outside when Punk walks over to him.

‘Don’t start.’ Punk warns when he notices the sling and his eyes light up. ‘I’m serious, don’t even open your mouth.’

Randy breathes out the laugh he was barely holding in and takes his bag, helps him into his coat. ‘I’m not saying a word.’

‘Happy?’

‘Thrilled.’

‘Can you believe she made me wear this thing? I look ridiculous.’

‘You look like you dislocated your shoulder.’

Punk makes a grumpy sound and they start walking back towards the gym.

‘You see Cody? He alright?’

‘Yeah, he’s worried about you.’

‘Cute.’

‘He said there’s a party tomorrow night, everyone from the clubs are going.’

‘Us included?’

‘Yeah, sure, if you want.’

‘Gonna let your hair down?’

‘Its about time we had a little fun, right?’

‘Fun? Not sure I’m familiar with that word.’

Randy slides his hand down Punk’s back as they walk, steering him towards the parking lot.

‘You could pretend to have a good time at least?’

Punk shrugs and tilts his head against the pain he forgot was there. Outside and its still raining and he is about to say something about it when he feels Randy still beside him. He stops walking and looks up and Randy’s eyes are fixed a few feet ahead of them, his jaw set tight, eyes burning.

‘You okay?’ Punk turns and sees Tom walking towards the back door of the gym hurriedly; gaze down so he hadn’t noticed them. A cold fury ignites inside Punk, both hands tensing up instinctively. Randy surges forward and Punk throws his arm out in time to catch him across the chest.

‘Just leave it,’ he warns. Tom looks up and sees them, his feet skitter a few panicked diagonal steps away and he breaks into a half-jog. Randy pushes against Punk again and Punk has to step fully in front of him to stop him from getting any further. ‘Randy, forget it.' 

Randy isn’t hearing him again, just like the last time they were in a parking lot and he saw someone he wanted to kill; Punk has to get in his line of vision and shove him in the chest to break is his focus. ‘Hey. Let him go.’

Randy looks at him and Punk can see the ferocity in his face, feel the tension in his body. ‘Are you nuts? That fucking asshole-’

‘-I know, I know. But leave it. Not here, not now.’

‘I should break his fucking neck.’

‘I want you to, believe me. Just not in front of all these people.’ Anger was burning in Punk’s veins, hot and distracting; but he was less likely to lose control and commit homicide in broad daylight than Randy when he lost his cool.

‘Just get to the car, come on.’

Punk lets his arm drop and Randy doesn’t move, just stares after Tom and watches as he darts inside the gym, slamming the door shut in his haste.

‘You’re too level-headed for your own good.’ Randy drops his shoulders but Punk can see the muscle jumping in his jaw.

‘Yeah well I have to balance you out, that’s why. Come on.’

They start walking again and Randy’s eyes are fixed on the door Tom vanished through like a dog stalking a rabbit. ‘How the fuck does he have the audacity to show his fucking face around here?’

‘I don’t know. He’s dumb as fuck, that’s probably it.’

They reach the car and Punk climbs in, waits for Randy to load his stuff into the trunk. Raindrops patter on the roof, slow and heavy and he thinks another storm will break soon.

Randy pulls out of the lot a little too quickly, back tyres skidding out making a screech and kicking up grit as they tear out onto the road. He narrowly misses a street sign and swerves erratically around it, splashing through puddles and bumping up against the curb as he goes. Punk shoots him a look and five minutes later they have to swap seats. He manages to drive one-handed while Randy fumes next to him; Punk can see his fists clenching against his legs, open, closed, open, closed. 

*

They spend the rest of the day on the couch trying to ignore the heavy press of frustration in the air, with little success until Randy pulls Punk into his lap and kisses him. Its raining again, and as Punk closes his eyes his head is filled with the sound of water on the windows and Randy’s breathing; the two single sounds that will root him to this place forever.

Punk sinks against Randy, revels in his warmth, lets himself be held. Randy’s hands on his hips, thumbs circling gently to avoid the parts of him that are still hurting. The kiss is slow and deep with affection. Assuring and grounding and good.

‘I’m glad you came with me today.’

Punk sighs, presses his forehead to Randy’s. ‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. Feels like we made progress.’

‘Maybe.’

Randy kisses him again, lightly this time. Takes a deep breath. ‘Sorry I nearly blew up again.’

‘S’okay. I would’a done the same if I wasn’t all fucked up.’

‘I can’t stop thinking about them hurting you.’

Punk doesn’t want this, doesn’t want to hear that protective, guilty shift in Randy’s voice because it makes his insides seize up, brings tension back to his bones. Makes him cold and guarded. He presses his mouth to Randy’s, murmurs against him, ‘Stop it.’

‘I’m trying.’

‘Enough people are trying to fuck us over without you doing it to yourself.’

Randy leans back and his eyes are soft but sincere. He looks tired. ‘I know, I know, you’re right. As usual.’

Punk brushes his thumb slowly over Randy’s bottom lip, down to his chin.

‘Still wanna go to your party?’

‘Yeah. I need to blow off some steam.’

 ‘Alright then Cinderella, you shall go to the ball.’

 

 

 


	24. Antisocial Behaviour

The next night they pulled up outside a huge old townhouse in north London owned by one of the betting agents. Randy told Punk on the way there it was a pretty exclusive thing and somehow that was supposed to mean it would be worth the insane cab fare. Punk ditched the sling at the apartment and spent a decent amount of time watching Randy getting dressed in black jeans and a shirt, resulting in him feeling seriously inadequate with his own appearance. Getting a beating did truly nothing for him. Randy had thrown him a black V-neck and insisted he wear it through Punk’s complaints that they were _matching_ and looked ridiculous. Randy had moved behind him and kissed him on the neck and breathed ‘shut up, you look so fucking good,’ right into his ear.

The air is freezing but still and the sky has finally cleared. They walk together up the path, loud music already pressing through the night towards them. Punk feels a little on edge and maybe he has a right to be, but Randy was sure nothing bad would go down, and if it did he’d be there the whole time. Punk doesn’t want or need a babysitter but the argument was over when Randy kissed his words away in the back of the cab, one warm hand pressing reassuringly through his hair.

‘Please, learn to relax. It’ll do you good.’

Punk fidgets next to him as they stand on the step and Randy calls Cody to check if he’s inside already. The house is packed with people. Its loud and busy and Punk has to force himself to let go, just a little. Randy, of course, is right. He needs this. He deserves it.

Inside the lights are dim and alcohol is everywhere to Randy’s delight. They walk through the hall together, Randy’s hand finding its place at the small of Punk’s back. People are looking at them. Women, mostly. It isn’t long until they’re separated; Randy going off to search for Cody, Punk getting trapped by a guy who watched his first ever match and spends nearly half an hour telling him how impressed he was.

‘When he pulled out the knife I thought you were fucking dead-’ he exclaims, laughing liquor-stinking breath into Punk’s face. He’s three seconds from making a serious scene when there’s a light, hesitant tap on his shoulder. He turns gratefully to find a blonde woman perched on the arm of a couch behind him and Punk recognises her immediately. Vince’s secretary. Something thuds in his chest and he doesn’t know what to feel.

‘I don’t know if you remember me, but-’

‘Yeah, I remember you.’

She purses her lips and nods, eyes darting around the room, awkward. She sips wine from a glass and her mouth leaves a print of red lipstick around the edge.

‘I wasn’t going to say anything to you, I was going to let it go, but seeing as you’re here-’

‘I didn’t tell him.’ She cuts in, eyes firmly focused on him now. She’s beautiful, really. Elegant and intelligent-looking. Punk waits for her to carry on because she looks like she’s working up to something; there’s a small crease between her brows and her lips are parted, poised. ‘I know I saw you and the other guy, Randy, I know I saw you…together at that club before it all started but… Vince found out on his own. He finds everything out.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘He knows…’ She looks down and away, lashes long and dark. ‘Basically everything that goes on in this city.’ A tiny, bitter smile. ‘You ought to be careful. He’s not a good guy.’

‘I worked that out for myself.’

‘I mean, really. He’s a serious piece of work. He doesn’t like it when people…bend his rules. You should just get out of here while you both still can.’

Punk studies her face. Sighs, runs a hand over his jaw to the back of his neck. ‘Lots of people telling me the same thing recently.’

‘Maybe you should listen to them.’

‘Maybe, maybe not.’

‘Look, I have to go soon, someone will notice. People talk. But, please. Take Randy and leave? Properly, I mean. You two seem to have something good. I saw you walk in together, you fit each other perfectly, its obvious you’re in love. Would be a shame if anything happened.’

‘If you know something-’

‘I don’t know anything; I’m just giving you some advice. That’s all.’ She stands up, smoothes her dress down and looks at him, an intense, steady gaze. Before Punk can reply she kisses him on the cheek and leaves with a slow flourish of silk and perfume. He swallows thickly and watches her go, a cold, sharp feeling in his gut.

The annoying guy is still there, hovering, and Punk just _knows_ he was listening to every word of their conversation. He clears his throat awkwardly and shuffles around, taking a swig of beer from his bottle.

‘So you, uh…’

Punk blinks at him.

‘You’re…you’re with Randy?’

‘Mhmm.’

‘I mean that’s fine, like, each to their own or whatever. Just-’

‘Can you spit it out so I can leave?’

The guy’s face drops and he actually takes a step back. Punk can see a blush rising on his cheeks. ‘Nothing, nothing man. Just didn’t expect that from someone like you.’

‘Someone like me?’

‘Well yeah, I mean, you’re a tough dude, I just-’

‘That’s about all the idiocy I can stand. You should probably keep your fuckin’ stupid thoughts to yourself from now on, lots of people aren’t as forgiving as I am.’

He clearly thinks Punk’s out of his mind because he gives him a look like he just found out his hero is a jerk and waves him off. Punk watches _him_ leave too, and has the distinct and unavoidable feeling of being right about this thing and wanting to go the fuck home.

He leaves the room and walks down the hallway, dodging people and trying not to hit his shoulder on anything. He recognises a guy from the gym, tall with dark blonde hair leaning up against an expensive-looking painting, talking to a woman. The guy waves him over as he comes closer.

‘Hey man, good to see you.’

‘Hey, uh, yeah.’ Punk doesn’t know his name.

‘Parties not really your thing?’

‘How did you guess.’

‘You look like you’re about to throw down with the next dude who looks at you funny.’ He laughs. Punk manages a smile. _These are your people_. _They’re okay._

‘I’m fine, just had my fill of jackasses lately.’

‘Lotta them here tonight.’

‘Just met one.’

‘Gotcha. So what’s up?’

‘Uh, you seen Randy anywhere?’

The guy nods, points down the hall to the staircase. ‘Saw him maybe ten minutes ago? He went upstairs with that young-looking kid.’

‘Cody.’

‘Yeah, that’s the one.’

‘Alright, thanks. I gotta go.’

‘Hey, you okay? I saw you going into Lisa’s office yesterday.’

Punk shuffles his feet uncomfortably.

‘Uh, yeah, just some old hits coming back to me, nothing serious.’

 He doesn’t look convinced but Punk gives him a small smile and takes his chance to leave. The guy tips his beer as a goodbye and turns back to his girl.

Punk has a weird feeling sinking into him, something like nerves and doesn’t want to admit the reason to himself. Upstairs the music is quieter but the halls are still full of people, a lot of them unbelievably drunk already. Punk checks in some of the rooms and finds most of them dark and empty. The place is a mess of liquor and smoke and Punk doesn’t even feel bad for the host when he sees a bottle of red wine spilling across a rug that’s probably more expensive than anything he’s ever owned-

Cody’s laughter from a room further down on the left. There’s makeshift sign on the door with a crudely drawn toilet on it and when Punk reaches it, the nervous feeling in him rises up all at once. A kind of protectiveness bursts through him and he feels like a teenager all over again. Awkward, jealous, anxious.

He opens the door and walks into the bathroom on slightly shaky legs. Randy is crouched over the sink and Cody stands beside him, looking into a huge mirror. He sees Punk’s reflection and smiles. He looks dazed, a little sweaty.

‘Hey, look who it is!’

A loud sniffing sound and Randy straightens, looking at the ceiling with his mouth open and lets out a quiet groan. Punk’s three steps into the room when he sees the cocaine lined up on the marble top, four thin lines and a £10 note rolled up beside them. Something icy shoots though him and Randy hasn’t even seen him yet.

‘Am I interrupting?’

Randy turns and a smile curves his mouth lazily upwards. ‘Hey handsome,’ he’s reaching for Punk and something makes him want to back away but he can’t bring himself to do it. Randy pulls him into a one-armed hug and kisses him on the temple. He’s warm and solid and familiar but Punk still feels prickly, conflicted.

‘You’ve got lipstick on your cheek,’

‘Huh? Oh – yeah.’

‘Thought I was the only one allowed to kiss you,’ his voice is hot and breathy in Punk’s ear and he knows that sound, knows it so thoroughly that his toes curl a little, instinctively, because that’s the sound Randy makes when he’s got two fingers buried in Punk’s ass and Punk can’t even stop the smile that reaches him-

Randy tilts his face upwards with a gentle thumb at his jaw and kisses him and Punk hears Cody, as if from far away, groaning his discomfort. Randy turns and presses Punk back against the countertop, knocking a glass noisily into the sink when he hits it-

‘Oh my _god_ , you two are so…’ Cody makes a disgusted noise and Randy mutters a half-hearted _sorry dude_ which barely makes it past Punk’s mouth. Four seconds later Randy’s tongue is pushing past his lips and Cody is hurrying to close the door behind him as he leaves.

Punk hops up onto the counter and pulls Randy in between his legs, hooks one knee up to haul him in closer. His hands slide slowly up under the fabric of Randy’s shirt and his skin is burning to Punk’s roughened palms.

‘You mad at me? You don’t seem mad at me,’ Randy speaks against him whisper-quiet and Punk drags his brain back to a functioning place, bites lightly at Randy’s bottom lip.

‘Yeah, I’m a little mad.’

‘M sorry, this party fuckin’ sucks and I just wanted to-’

‘I forgive you. ‘Cause you’re so pretty.’

Randy breathes a laugh against his cheek and Punk nips the lobe of his ear, maybe just slightly frustrated. Randy groans a little and it lights something up in Punk’s chest.

‘You look amazing tonight.’ Randy murmurs.

‘Flattery, that’s a dirty trick.’

‘God and you smell fucking great too.’

‘I borrowed your cologne.’

‘Can I fuck you? I wanna fuck you.’

Punk breathes in deep and when he exhales he means to laugh a little but it comes out shaky and hard. Randy kisses his neck, huge palms sliding up his thighs, squeezing. He cares a little that his boyfriend is coked off his head but the way Randy’s teeth scrape against the tender skin at his throat is diminishing his worry second by second.

‘You can’t – we can’t.’

‘You don’t wanna?’

‘No, no. I want to. I’m not allowed.’

Randy ducks his head back and his eyes are shining and there’s an incredulous grin on his face that makes Punk smile too.

‘What– who-’

‘Physio.’ Punk manages a shrug, pinned up against Randy’s body and the mirror behind him. ‘I’m banned from fucking for a few weeks. Too much physical exertion.’

Randy blinks at him like he’s been slapped and he starts to laugh. ‘I knew that would come back and bite me in the ass. Shit.’

‘Doesn’t seem like such a good idea now, huh Romeo?’ Punk kisses him again, slowly like some kind of apology. ‘And I really doubt you brought lube with you, unless this is that kind of party, but just so you know I’m so not doing that again.’ Randy’s eyes drop to Punk’s mouth for a few seconds.

‘So I can’t fuck you, but am I allowed to do other stuff?’

‘Knock yourself out,’

He’s is practically thrumming with energy, groping roughly at Punk’s thighs, demanding and possessive.

‘Should I call a cab?’ Punk’s breath stutters a little when he speaks and his stomach flips ridiculously with anticipation.

‘We only just got here,’ Randy kisses at the hollow of his collarbone, lets his bottom lip drag over the skin.

‘You’d rather stay?’

‘Mmh, I’m fine right here.’

‘Don’t fuck with me, we are so not doing this.’ And yet Punk _is_ doing this, or maybe he is just letting Randy effortlessly bend his will like he always can-

‘-What, you never got blown in someone else’s bathroom before?’ Randy rubs his thumbs teasingly along the inside of Punk’s thighs.

‘High school was a long time ago.’

‘Wow.’

Except last time it was this chick who was someone else’s girlfriend and she only did it as a dare from one of her scrawny poisonous little friends. Her boyfriend found out and punched Punk so hard one of his teeth got knocked loose.

‘Maybe I could take a trip down memory lane, just for you.’ Punk smirks, shimmies his hips a little lower down, and hears the quick catch of Randy’s breath.

‘Its so cute how you pretend you can resist me.’

‘Gotta keep you on your toes big guy.’

‘So that’s a yes?’

‘Of course it’s a yes. I hope you do a better job than Shelly, she had no grasp at all on the concept of no teeth, it was honestly scary I thought she was going to nick a fucking vein-’

‘-Okay its shut up and let me suck you off time.’

‘Cocaine always make you this eager for dick?’

Randy huffs a slightly outraged laugh at Punk’s cheek and starts to tear at his belt buckle, yanking it undone in a flurry of tugs and frustrated pulls.

‘Alright I deserved that one.’

‘Yes you did.’

‘And you deserve this.’ Randy slinks his hand along Punk’s jaw and pushes two fingers into his mouth up to the second knuckle. ‘No more talking.’

Punk bites down on them playfully and he pretends its all fun and games but his stomach is going into twists, and when Randy finally pulls his jeans open and mouths hotly at his dick through his boxers Punk breathes a frankly shameful moan and is vaguely glad his mouth is full enough to muffle it.

Its filthy and fast and Randy’s spit is soaking the dark grey fabric and when Punk feels teeth he gets the urge to laugh, and attempts to say ‘god you asshole-’ but it comes out as an unintelligible mumble. Its frustratingly muted and all he can feel is pressure and heat and what he really wants is the slide of Randy’s tongue – and then Randy is tugging Punk’s boxers down and diving on his dick so fast that Punk’s whole body twitches and he bangs the back of his head on the mirror.

He tries to say _fuck_ and his voice is all messed up and Randy’s fingers just slide a little further into his mouth so he sucks on them instead, lets the dual sensations combine somewhere at the back of his spine with hot, flickering pleasure. He briefly wonders how Randy gets better at this every time, how the wet, commanding draw of his mouth is so perfect. He is an expert at taking Punk apart. 

Punk digs his fingers into Randy’s shoulder and grey eyes glance up at him. He takes Punk right back in his mouth all the way and holds him there, flicking his tongue, hollowing his cheeks and Punk wants to move his hips because Randy could probably deal with that just fine, but for now he’s happy with feeling like his soul is getting sucked out of him through his dick.

Randy’s forcing deep, even breaths through his nose and his fingers slip out of Punk’s mouth a little and then back in, slow and so dirty it makes him _throb_ and he is revoltingly grateful for this shitty party because this memory will be with him until the end of time. His eyes slide closed and he lets his hips jump just a little. It draws a sound from Randy so indecent that his stomach clenches and his nails bite into Randy’s skin, right at the wisp of black where his tattoo sneaks from under his shirt at the back of his neck.

He grabs Randy’s wrist and frees the fingers from his mouth far enough to speak and he croaks in a voice that doesn’t even sound like his-

‘Holy fuck you’re incredible.’

Randy makes a little noise of appreciation, presses his fingers back past Punk’s lips and swallows on his dick at the same time and that’s it. Pressure spreads in Punk’s gut and twists higher and tighter and he smacks Randy’s shoulder in warning or maybe like he’s tapping out but he just carries on working his tongue, speeding up now. Punk groans, teeth closing around Randy’s knuckle and his body is shaking and before he can do anything else he’s coming in Randy’s mouth in deep, viciously intense bursts and Randy’s just taking it. Steady as anything he rides it out, waits until Punk’s muscles start to relax before letting up. When he draws back and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and slides his fingers from between Punk’s teeth he smirks like he’s beat Punk at something, and maybe he has.

Punk gapes at him stupidly, weak and totally consumed. He remembers to breathe after a few seconds.

‘Who the hell _are_ you?’

Randy kisses him lightly and smiles.

‘You’re so easy.’

Punk’s too numb and sensitive at the same time to think of a comeback so he readjusts his pants and fights his belt back into the buckle. He still has jelly legs when Randy takes him by the wrist and pulls him off the counter.

‘Wait what about you?’

‘I can’t come when I’m high.’

Punk wonders briefly through his fogged-up barely managing brain how often Randy and Cody get high together and he shoves away a sharp poke of misplaced jealousy for what seems like the millionth time, as they leave together.

The music is louder in the hallway and Punk smirks an apology at the line of people waiting outside the bathroom door. Randy’s fingers clamp tight on his pulse as they wander down to the stairs, the thick too-rich smell of cologne and cigarette smoke and liquor fogging the air.

‘Going somewhere?’

It’s Cody, his arm around a pretty girl with dark hair who’s smiling at him like he’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen. Randy flips him the finger then slaps him on the back as they pass, weaving between people grouped on the steps.

They’re almost at the door when Randy lets go of Punk and stops walking. Punk almost bumps into the back of him, scoots around to see what’s going on in time to hear Randy’s voice over the music-

‘What the fuck did you just say to me?’

Idiot guy from earlier has a few friends, it seems. Punk elbows his way beside Randy in the crowd.

‘You heard me, you fuckin’ freak. You and your little boyfriend better be leaving.’

Randy tenses up beside him; Punk feels it like a shift inside his own body. He decides in a quick and unusually conclusive moment not to bother holding Randy back this time. His heart wants to fight, even if his body can’t.

‘We have a problem here?’

The guy looks at Punk and he’s wasted – eyes watery and unfocused, swaying a little on his feet. ‘Yeah you fuckin f-’

‘-Don’t say it, I’m serious don’t-’

‘Punk,’

The guy gets a furious, uneven-looking grimace on his face and takes a step forward, and people are starting to notice.

‘Get the fuck outta my way.’ Randy’s not shouting but his voice rumbles dangerously.

‘A lot of people are scared of you two, you know that?’ The guy slurs, spilling beer from his bottle onto the carpet. ‘Big tough Americans, I bet half the people in this room are too fucking shit-scared to look you in the eye.’ He points at Randy’s face and his finger dances a slow figure of eight in the air. ‘I bet none of them know what you are either. ‘Cause I do, now. And I ain’t scared of you anymore, son.’

‘This is your last chance to get out of my face before I crush it with my boot.’

‘You’re not a big deal. I could probably take you in a fight but I wouldn’t want you to touch me, you know?’

A few of his friends snigger, the guy’s ego is growing and Punk is very aware of how keyed-up Randy is. Cocaine or no, he’s always ready to split knuckles.

‘You better stop talking like that, you’re getting me hard.’

Two seconds of stunned and slightly puzzled silence and then the guy is swinging his fist at Randy’s face. It hits him square on the cheek but nothing really happens, his head snaps back a little but he doesn’t even lose his footing. The guys still reeling in his confusion when Randy moves forward and head-butts him in the face, the full force of his body behind it. The guy’s knees give out and he slips to the floor covering his nose with both hands, blood spilling between his fingers. Someone half-shouts _holy shit did you see that_ , and Randy’s laughing, turning to put his hand on the flat of Punk’s back again where it belongs.

‘Okay champ, time to go,’ Punk mutters, chewing at the inside of his cheek to stop himself grinning like an idiot. Randy steps over one of the guy’s legs, shoulder-barges someone out of the way and they amble towards the door.

The air is cool and fresh, their breath clouding in front of their faces. There’s a bruise blooming on Randy’s cheek.

He calls a cab, kicking at the curb and Punk watches him, a dense contentedness filling him like warm syrup. When Randy hangs up Punk goes to him, hooks his thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans and kisses him on the mouth.

‘Did I just make an ass of myself in there or what.’ He smiles against Punk’s lips.

‘I thought it was pretty hot. You should head-butt people more often.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Mhm.’

‘You’re an animal.’

Punk kisses him again, pulls him in a little closer to feel the heat of his body.

‘God its cold out here.’

‘Yeah. I think we missed Christmas. I’d forgotten.’

‘I should probably feel sad about that but I don’t.’

‘I’ll give you a gift when we get home.’

‘If you want me to make some gross bullshit joke about the naughty list I’m not buying it.’

‘I already know you’re no fun, it’s okay.’ Randy teases, presses his mouth against Punk’s again.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I've been promising this for so long, I'm sorry it took forever! I'm still writing, always writing, but finding the time to finish anything is so hard. 
> 
> Also I'm aware that this Sucks but please don't hate me!
> 
> Anyway, I have a tumblr, if you want to come and yell at me to update or just say hi or whatever --- justpicturemedrowning.tumblr.com :)

**Author's Note:**

> This is way off and I'm sick so I can't deal with going through it all again, I just hope it was okay! I've written a load more but don't have the energy to finish that off but I'll post it when I'm feeling better. In case you didn't know I have a tumblr now, my url is justpicturemedrowning :) x


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